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■Wfci I iiKiaiai n fctiWwAiv*!

i I

Aylwin

i?n

JSSimimii

Aylwin

Theodore Watts-Dunton

Author of "The Coming of Love: Rhona Boswell's Story'

"Quoth Ja'afar, bowing low his head:— 'Bold Is the
donkey-driver, O Ka'dee ! and bold the ka'dee who dares
say what he will believe, what disbelieve— not knowing
in any wise the mind of Allah— not knowing in any wise
his own heart, and what it shall some day suffer.' "

59644

Toronto

George N. Morang
1898

PSIOPERTY OF

OHIVERSITY OF W/iT[!^lOO

THE LIBRARY

41 mil n, 1 1

/ i

■\

Printed by Redfield Brothers, New York

Contents

F'ACE

The Cymric Child .

• • •

II.

The Moonlight Cross ok the Gnostics

III.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

12:

IV.

The Le.\der of the Aylwinians

171

Haroun'-al-Raschid, the Painter

199

VI.
The Song of Y Wyddfa 221

VII.
SiNFi's Dukkeripen 22g

VIII.

Isis as Humourist

241

"''•'"T*'"

Contents

IX.
Tnii Palace or Kin-ki-gal .

PAGE

• -?.■>

Pkhind the \'eil

271

XI.

The Irony of Heaven .

• 2')3

XII.
The Revolving Cage of Circumstance

XIII.
The Magic of Snowdon

1;4

XIV.

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

~sC

^>o

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story

• 387

XVI.
D'Arcy's Letter 431

XVII.
The Two Dukkeripens 447

XVIII.
The Walk to Llanberis 457

Z^SSi

PAGE

^S5

-71

293

313

343

r^Cr-

3S7

431

The Cymric Child

447

i57

i i'

I THK CYMRIC CHILD

"TiiosK who in childhood have had sjHtary coiiinuinings
with the sea Icnow the sea's prophecy. 'J'hey know tliat there
is a deeper sympathy between the sea and the soul of man
than other people dream of. They know that the water seems
nearer akin than the land to the spiritual world, inasmuch
as it is one and indivisible, and has motion, and answers to
the mysterious call of the winds, and is the writing" tablet of
the moon and stars. When a child who, born beside the sea,
and beloved by the sea, feels suddenly, as he gazes upon it, a
dim sense of pity and warning; when there comes, or seems
to come, a shadow across the waves, with never a cloud in
the sky to cast it; when there comes a shuddej'ng as of
wings that move in dicad or ire, then such a child feels as if
the blood-hounds of calamity are let loose upon him or upon
those he loves; he feels that the sea has told him all it dares
tell or can. And, in other moods of fate, when beneath a
cloudy sky the myriad dimples of the sea begin to sparkle as
though the sun were shining bright upon them, such a child
feels, as he gazes at it, that the sea is telling him of some
great joy near at hand, or, at least, not tar off."

One lovely summer afternoon a little boy was sitting on
the edge of the clifT that skirts the old churchyard of Rax-
ton-on-Sea. He w?s sitting on the grass close to the brink
of the indentation cut by the water into the horse-shoe curve
called by the fishermen Mousetrap Cove ; sitting there as still
as an image of a boy in stone, at the forbidden spot where
the wooden fence proclaimed the crumbling hollow crust
to be specially dangerous — sitting and looking across the
sheer deep gulf below.

Flinty Point on his right was sometimes in purple shadow

fi.

:!l

n ;

fl 1

2 Aylwin

and sonictinics shining in the sun; Needle Pofnt on his left
was sometimes in purple shadow and sometimes shining in
the sun; and boyond these headlands spread now the wide
purple, and now the wide sparkle of the open sea. The
vciy gulls, wheeling as close to him as they dared, seemed to
be frightened at the little boy's peril. Straight ahead he was
gazing, however — gazing so intently that his eyes must have
been seeing very much or else very little of that limitless
world of li (liL and coloured shade. On account of certain
questions connected with race that will be raised in this nar-
rative, I must dwell a little while upon the child's personal
appearance, and especially upon his colour. Natural or
acquired, it was one that might be almost called unique; as
much like a young Gypsy's colour as was compatible with
respectable descent, and yet not a Gypsy's colour. A deep
undertone of "Romany brown" seemed breaking through
that peculiar kind of ruddy golden glow which no sunshine
can give till it has itself been deepened and coloured and en-
riched by the responsive kisses of the sea.

Moreover, there was a certain something in his eyes that
was not Gypsy-like — a something which is not uncommonly
seen in the eyes of boys born along that coast, whether those
eyes be black or blue or grey , a something which cannot be
described, but which seems like a reflex of the daring gaze
of that great land-conquering and daring sea. Very striking
was this expression as he momentarily turned his face land-
vvard to watch one of the gulls that had come wheeling up
the cliffs towards the flinty grey tower of the church — the
old deserted church, whose graveyard the sea had already
half washed away. As his eyes followed the bird's move-
ments, however, this daring sea-look seemed to be growing
gradually weaker and weaker. At last it faded away alto-
gether, and by the time his face war- turned again towards
the sea, the look I have tried to describe was supplanted by
such a gaze as that gull would give were it hiding behind a
boulder with a broken wing. A mist of cruel trouble was
covering his eyes, and soon the mist had grown into two
bright glittering pearly tears, which, globing and trembling,
larger ^nd larger, were at length big enough to drown both
eyes; big enough to drop, shining, on the grass; big enough
to blot out altogether the most brilliant picture that sea and
sky could make. For that little boy had begun to learn a
lesson which life was going to teach him fully — the lesson

The Cymric Child

on his left
shining- in
^v the wide
sea. I'hc
seemed to
ead he was
mn3t have
t HmiUess
of certain
n this nar-
s personal
J^atural or
inique; as
tible with
A deep
through
sunshine
d and en-
eyes that
bmmonly
her those
cannot be
ing gaze
' striking
ace land-
ieling up
rch— the
I already
s move-
growing
^ay alto-
towards
inted by
)ehind a
ble was
nto two
mbling,
vn both
enough
sea and
learn a
lesson

tliat shining sails in the sunny wind, and black trailing bands
of smoke passing here and there along the horizon, and
silvery gulls dipping playfully into the green and silver
waves (nay, all the beauties and all the wonders of the
world), make but a blurred picture to eyes that look-
through the lens of tears. However, with a brown hand
brisk and angry, he brushed away these tears, like one who
should say, "This kmd of thing will never do."

Indeed, so hardy was the boy's face — tanned by the sun,
hardened and bronzed by Jie wind, reddened by the brine —
that t ars seemed entirely out of place there. The
meaning of those tears must be fully accounted for, and if
possible fully justified, for this little boy is to be the hero of
this story. In other words he is Henry Aylwin; that is to
say, myself; and those who know me now in the full vigour
of manhood, a lusty knight of the alpenstock of some re-
pute, vvill be surprised to know what troubled me. They
will be surprised to know that owing to a fall from the cliff
I was for about two years a cripple.

This is how it came about. Ro"gh and yielding as were
the paths, called "gangways," connecting the cliffs with the
endless reaches of sand below, they were not rough enough,
or yie!.. lig enough, or in any way dangerous enough
for me.

So I used to fashion "gangways" of my own; I used to
descend the clif¥ at whatsoever point it pleased me, clinging
to the lumps of sandy earth with the prehensile power of a
spider-monkey. Many a warning had I had from the good
tishermen and sea-folk, that some day I should fall from top
to bottom — fall and break my neck. A laugh was my sole
answer to these warnings; for, xAth the possession of per-
fect health, J had inherited that instinctive belief in good
luck which perfect health will often engender.

However, my punishment came at last. The coast, which
is yielding gradually to the sea, is famous for sudden and
^^igantic landslips. These landslips are sometimes followed,
at the return of the tide, by a further fall, called a "settle-
ment." The word "settlemenc" explains itself, perhup . No
matter how smooth the sea, the return of the tide seems on
that coast to have a strange magnetic power upon the land,
and the debris of a landslip will sometimes, though not al-
ways, respond to it by again falling and settling into new
and permanent shapes.

4 Aylwin

Now, on the morning after a great landslip, when the
coastguard, returning on his beat, found a cove where, half-
an-hour before, he had left his own cabbages growing, I,
in spite of all warnings, had climbed the heap of debris from
the sands, and while I was hallooing triumphantly to two
companions below — the two most impudent-looking urch-
ins, barefooted and unkempt, that ever a gentleman's son
forgathered with — a great mass of loose earth settled, carry-
ing me with it in its fall. I was taken up for dead.

It was, however, only a matter of broken ribs and a dam-
aged leg. And there is no doubt that if the local surgeon
had not been allowed to have his own way, I should soon
have been cured. As it was I became a cripple. The great
central fact — the very pivot upon which all the wheels of
my life have since been turning — is that for two years dur-
ing the impressionable period of childhood I walked on
crutches.

It must not be supposed that my tears — the tears which
at this moment were blotting out the light and glory of the
North Sea in the sun — came from the pain I was suffering.
They came from certain terrible news, v/hich even my
brother Frank had been careful to keep from me, but which
had fallen from the lips of my father — the news that I was
not unlikely to be a cripple for life. From that moment I had
become a changed being, solitary and sometimes morose. I
would come and sit staring at the ocean, meditating on
things in general, but chiefly on things connected with crip-
ples, asking myself, as now, whether life would be bearable
on crutches.

At my heart were misery and anger and such revolt as is,
I hope, rarely found in the heart of a child. I had sat down
outside the rails at this most dangerous point along the cliflf,
wondering whether or not it would crumble beneath me.
For this lameness coming to me, who had been so active,
who had been, indeed, the little athlete and pugiHst of the
sands, seemed to have isolated me from my fellow-creatures
to a degree that is inconceivable to me now. A stubborn
will and masterful pride made me refuse to accept a disaster
such as many a nobler soul than mine has, I am conscious,
borne with patience. My nature became soured by asking
in vain fo" sympathy at home; my loneliness drove me —
silent, ha ghty and aggressive — to haunt the churchyard,
and sit at Jie edge of the cliflf, gazing wistfully at the sea and

The Cymric Child 5

the sands which could not be reached on crutches. Like a
wounded sea-gull, I retired and took my trouble alone.

How could I help taking it alone when none would sym-
pathise with me? My brother Frank called me "The Black
Savage," and I half began to suspect myself of secret im-
pulses of a savage kind. Once I heard my mother mur-
mur, as she stroked Frank's rosy cheeks and golden curls,
"My poor Henry is a strange, proud boy!" Then, looking
from my -rrutches to Frank's beautiful limbs, she said. "How
providential that it was not the elder! Providence is kind."
She meant kind to the House of Aylwin. I often wonder
whether she guessed that I heard her. I. often wonder
whetlicr she knew how I had loved her.

This is how matters stood with me on that summer after-
noon, when I sat on the edge of the cliff in a kind of dull,
miserable dream. Suddenly, at the moment when the huge
mass of clouds had covered the entire surface of the water
between Flinty Point and Needle Point with their rich pur-
ple shadow, it seemed to me that the waves began to sparkle
and laugh in a joyful radiance which they were making for
themselves. And at that same moment an unwonted sound
struck my ear from the churchyard behind me — a strange
sound indeed in that deserted place — that of a childish voice
singing.

Was, then, the mighty ocean writing symbols for an un-
happy child to read? My father, from whose book, The
Veiled Queen, the extract with which this chapter opens is
taken, would unhesitatingly have answered "Yes."

"Destiny, no doubt, in the Greek drama concerns itself
only with the great," says he, in that wonderful book of his.
"But who are the great? With the unseen powers, mys-
terious and imperious, who govern while they seem not to
govern all that is seen, who are the great? In a world where
man's loftiest ambitions are to higher intelligences childish
dreams, where his highest knowledge is ignorance, where
his strongest strength is derision — who are the great? Are
they not the few men and women and children or^ the earth
who greatly love?"

^iT

Aylwin

I *'

II.

So sweet a sound as that childish voice I had never heard
before. I held my breath and listened.

Into my very being that child-voice passed, and it was a
new music and a new joy. I can give the reader no notion
of it, because there is not in nature anything with which I
can compare it. The blackcap has a climacteric note, just
before his song collapses and dies, so full of pathos and ten-
derness that often, when I had been sitting on a gate in
Wilderness Road, it had affected me more deeply than any
human words. But here was a note sweet and soft as that,
and yet charged with a richness no blackcap's song had ever
borne, because no blackcap has ever felt the joys and sor-
rows of a young human soul.

The voice was singing in a language which seemed
strange to me then, but has been familiar enough since:

"Bore o'r cvvmwl aur,
Eryri oedd dy gaer,
Brenhin o wyllt a gwar,
Gwawr ysbrydau."*

Intense curiosity now made me suddenly forget my troubles.
I scrambled back through the trees not far from that spot
and looked around. There, sitting upon a grassy grave,
beneath one of the windows of the church, was a little girl,
somewhat younger than myself apparently. With her head
bent back she was gazing up at the sky and singing, while
one of her little hands was pointing to a tiny cloud that hov-
ered like a golden feather over her head. The sun, which
had suddenly become very bright, shining on her glossy hair
(for she wns bareheaded) gave it a metallic lustre, and it
was difTicuIt to say what was the colour, dark bronze or
black. So completely absorbed was she in watching the
cloud to which her strange song or incantation seemed ad-

♦Morning of the golden cloud,
Eryri was thy castle,
King of the wild and tame,
Glory of the spirits of air!
Eryri — the Place of Eagles, t. e., Snowdon.

i never heard

and it was a
ler no notion
with which I
ric note, just
hos and ten-
)n a gate in
ply than any
soft as that,
)ng had ever
3ys and sor-

ich seemed
^1 since:

ly troubles,
n that spot
ssy grave,
• little girl,
h her head
ring, while
i that hov-
un, which
flossy hair
tre, and it
bronze or
ching the
semed ad-

<<•

The Cymric Child 7

dressed, that she did not observe me when I lOse and went
towards her. Over her head, high up in the blue, a lark
that was soaring towards the same gauzy cloud was singing,
as if in rivalry. As I slowly approached the child, I could
see by her forehead (which in the sunshine seemed like a
lobe of pearl), and especially by her complexion, that she
was uncommonly lovely, and I was afraid lest she should
look down before I got close to her, and so see my crutches
before her eyes encountered my face. She did not, however,
seem to hear me coming along the grass (so intent was she
w ith her singing) until I was close to her, and throwing my
shadow over her. Then she suddenly lowered her head and
looked at me in surprise. I stood transfixed at her aston-
ishing beauty. No other picture has ever taken such pos-
session of me. In its every detail it lives before me now.
Her eyes (which at one moment seemed blue grey, at an-
other violet) were shaded by long black lashes, curving
backward in a most peculiar way, and these matched in hue
her eyebrows, and the tresses that were tossed about her
tender throat and were quivering in the sunlight.

All tliis picture I did not take in at once; for at first I
could see nothing but those quivering, glittering, changeful
eyes turned up into my face. Gradually the other features
(especially the sensitive full-lipped mouth) grew upon me as
I stood silently gazing. Here seemed to me a more perfect
beauty than had ever come to me in my loveliest dreams of
beauty beneath the sea. Yet it was not her beauty, perhaps,
so much as the look she gave me, that fascinated me, melted
nie.

As she gazed in my face there came over hers a look of
pleased surprise, and then, as her eyes passed rapidly down
my limbs and up again, her face was not overshadowed with
the look of disappointment which I had waited for — yes,
waited for, like a pinioned criminal for the executioner's up-
lifted knife; but the smile of pleasure was still playing about
the httle mouth, while the tender young eyes were moisten-
ing rapidly with the dews of a kind of pity that was new to
nie, a pity that did not blister the pride of the lonely
wounded sea-gull, but soothed, healed, and blessed.

Remember that I was a younger son — that I was swarthy
— that I was a cripple — and that my mother — had Frank. It
w;.a as though my heart must leap from my breast towards
that child. Not a word had she spoken, but she had said

Aylwin

If:

what the Httle maimed "fighting Hal" yearned to hear, anci
without knozvi'ig that he yearned.

I restrained myself, and did not yield to the feeling that
impelled me to throw my arms about her neck in an ecstasy
of wonder and delight. After a second or two she again
threw back her head to gaze at the golden cloud.

"Look!" said she, suddenly clapping her hands, "it's over
both of us now."

"What is it?" I said.

"The Dukkeripen," she said, "the Golden Hand. Sinfi
and Rhona both say the Golden Hand brings luck: what is
luck?"

I looked up at the little cloud which to me seemed more
like a golden feather than a golden hand. But I soon bent
my eyes down again to look at her.

While I stood looking at her, the tall figure of a man
came out of the church. This was Tom Wynne. Besides
being the organist of Raxton "New Church," Tom was also
(for a few extra shilHngs a week) custodian of the "Old
Church," this deserted pile within whose precincts we now
were. Tom's features wore an expression of virtuous in-
dignation which puzzled me, and evidently frightened the
little girl. He locked the door, and walked unsteadily
towards us. He seemed surprised to see me there, and his
features relaxed into a bland civility.

"This is (hiccup) Master Aylwin, Winifred," he said.

The child looked at me again with the same smile. Her
alarm had fled.

"This is my little daughter Winifred," said Tom with a
pompous bow.

I was astonished. I never knew that Wynne had a daugh-
ter, for, intimate as he and I had become, he had actually
never mentioned his daughter before.

"My only daughter," Tom repeated.

He then told me, with many hiccups, that, since her
mother's death (that is to say from her very infancy), Wini-
fred had been brought up by an aunt in Wales. "Quite a
lady, her aunt is," said Tom proudly, "and Winifred has
come to spend a few weeks with her father."

He said this in a grandly paternal tone — a tone that
seemed meant to impress upon her how very much obliged
she ought to feel to him for consenting to be her father; and,

ed to hear, and

the feeling- that

■^<^ in an ecstasy

two she again

oud.

ands, ''it's over

1 Hand. Sinfi
' luck; what is

seemed more
It I soon bent

ure of a man
tine. Besides
rom was also
, of the "Old
I nets we now-
virtuous in-
ightened the
unsteadily
lere, and his

le said,
smile. Her

rom with a

ad a daugh-
ad actually

since her
icy), Wini-

"Qnite a
nifred has

tone that
:h obliged
ther; and,

The Cymric Child 9

dging from the look the child gave him, she did feel very
uich obliged.

Suddenly, however, a thought seemed to come back upon
cm, a thought which my unexpected appearance ua the
cere had driven from his drunken brain. The look of
irtuous indignation returned, and, staring at the little girl
hrough glazed eyes, he said in the tremulous and tearful
oice of a deeply injured parent:

"Winifred, i thought 1 heard you singing one of them
[heathen Gypsy songs that you learned of the Gvpsies in
[Wales."

"No, father," said she, "it was the song they sing in Shire-
[Carnarvon about the golden cloud over Snowdon and the
spirits of the air."

"Yc?," said Tom, "but a little while ago you were singing
a Gypsy song — a downright heathen Gypsy song. I heard
it about half an hour ago when I was in the church."

The beautiful little head drooped in shame.

"I'm s'prised at you, Winifred! When I come to think
whose daughter you are, — mine! — I'm s'prised at you," con-
tinued Tom, whose virtuous indignation waxed with every
word.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" said the child. "I won't do it any
more."

This contrition of the child's only fanned the flame of
Tom's virtuous indignation.

"Here am I," said he, "the most (hiccup) respectable man
in two parishes, — except Master Aylwin's father, of course,
— here am I, the organ-player for the Christianest of all the
Christian churches along the coast, and here's my daughter
sings heathen songs just like a Gypsy or a tinker. I'm
s'prised at you, Winifred."

I had often seen Tom in a dignified state of liquor, but the
pathetic expression of injured virtue that again overspread
his face so changed it, that I had some difficulty myself in
realising how entirely the tears filling his eyes and the grief
at his heart were of alcoholic origin. And as to the little
girl, she began to sob piteously.

"Oh dear, oh dear, what a wicked girl I am!" said she.

This exclamation, however, aroused my ire against Tom;
and as I always looked upon him as my special paid hench-
man, who, in return for such services as supplying me with
tiny boxing-gloves, and fishing-tackle, and bait, during my

Aylwin

■.'4 I

•' It,

(I -J

hale days, and tame rabbits now that I was a cripple, mostly
contrived to possess himself of my pocket-money, I had nu
hesitation in exclaiming:

"Why, Tom, you know you're drunk, you silly old fool ! '

At this Tom turned his mournful and reproachful gazr
upon me, and began to weep anew. Then he turned and
addressed the sea, uplifting his hand in oratorical fashion :^ —

"Here's a young gentleman as I've been more than a
father to — yes, more than a father to — for when did his own
father ever give him a ferret-eyed rabbit, a real ferret-eyetl
rabbit thoroughbred?''

"Why, I gave you one of my five-shilling pieces for it,"
said I; "and the rabbit was in a consumption and died in
three weeks."

But Tom still addressed the sea.

"When did his own father give him," said he, "the longest
thigh-bone that the sea ever washed out of Raxton church-
yard?"

"Why, I gave you tivo of my five-shilling pieces for tJiat,"
said I, "and next day you went and borrowed the bone, and
sold it over again to Dr. Munro for a quart of beer."

"When did his own father give him a beautiful skull for a
money-box, and make an oak lid to it, and keep it for him
because his mother wouldn't have it in the house?"

"Ah, but where's the money that was in it, Tom?
Where's the money?" said I, flourishing one of my crutches,
for I was worked up to a state of high excitement when I
recalled my own wrongs and Tom's frauds, and I forgot his
relationship to the little girl. "Where are the bright new
half-crowns that were in the money-box when I left it with
you — the half-crowns that got changed into pennies, Tom?
Where are thcyf What's the use of having a skull for a
money-box if it's got no money in it? That's what / want to
know, Tom !"

"Here's a young gentleman," said Tom, "as I've done all
these things for, and how does he treat me? He says, 'Why
Tom, you know you're drunk, you silly old fool.' "

At this pathetic appeal the little girl sprang up and turned
towards me with the ferocity of a young tigress. Her little
hands were tightly clenched, and her eyes seemed positively
to be emitting blue sparks. Many a bold boy had I en-
countered on the sands before my accident, and many a
fearless girl, but such an impetuous antagonist as this was

The Cymric Child

ripple, mostly
ney, I had riu

illy old fool!"
roachful gazr
e turned and
:al fashion:—
more than a
1 did his own
al ferret-eyed

)ieces for it,"
1 and died in

, "the longest
xton church-

:ces for tJiat,"

he bone, and

eer."

Lil skull for a
p it for him
?"

it, Tom?
y crutches,
ent when I
I forgot his
bright new
left it with
nies, Tom?
skull for a
t / want to

|ve done all
»ays, 'Why

md turned
Her little
positively
|had I en-
many a
this was

new. 1 leaned on my crutches, however, and looked at her
unblcnchingly.

"You wicked English boy, to make my father cry, said
she, as soon as her anger allowed her to speak. "If you
were not lame I'd — I'd — I'd hit you."

I did not move a muscle, but stood lost in a dream of
wonder at her amazing loveliness. The tiery llusli upon her
face and neck, the bewitching childish frown of anger corru-
gating the brow, the dazzling glitter of the teeth, the quiver •
of the full scarlet lips above and below them, turned me
dizzy with admiration,

Her eyes met mine, and slowly the violet flames in them
began to soften. Then they died away entirely as she mur-
mured :

"You wicked English boy, if you hadn't — beautiful —

beautiful eyes, I'd kill you."

By this time, however, Tom had entirely forgotten his
grievance against me, and gazed upon Winifred in a state
of drunken wonderment.

"Winifred," he said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, "how
dare you speak like that to Master Aylvvin, your father's best
friend, the orly friend your poor father's got in the world,
the friend as I give ferret-eyed rabbits to, and tame hares,
and beautiful skulls? Beg his pardon this instant, Winifred.
Down on your knees and beg my friend's pardon this in-
stant, Winifred."

The poor little girl stood dazed, and was actually sinking
down on her knees on the grass before me.

I cried out in acute distress:

"No, no, no, no, Tom, pray don't let her — dear little girl!
beautiful little girl!"

"Very well, Master Aylvvin," said Tom, grandly, "she
sha'n't if you don't like, but she shall go and kiss you and
make It up."

At this the child's face brightened, and she came and
laid her little red lips upon mine. Velvet lips, I feel them
now, soft and warm — I feel them while I write these lines.

Tom looked on for a moment, and then left us, blunder-
ing away towards Raxton, most likely to a beer-house.

He told the child that she was to go home and mind the
house until he returned. He gave her the church key to
take home. We two were left alone in the churchyard, look-
ing at each other in silence, each waiting for the other to

I 2

Aylwin

:■

speak. At last she said, demurely, "Good-bye; father says
1 miisi ^'o home."

And she walked away with a business-like air toward the
little white gate of the churchyard, opening upon what was
called "The Wilderness Road." When she reached the gate
she threw a look over her shoulder as she passed through.
It was that same look again — wistful, frank, courageous. I
innnediately began to follow her, although I did not know
why. When she saw this she stopped for me. I got up to
her, and then we proceeded side by side in perfect silence
along the dusty narrow road, perfumed with the scent of
wild rose and honeysuckle. Suddenly she stooped and said:

"I have left my hat on the tower," and laughed merrily
at her own heedlessness.

She ran back with an agility which I thought I had never
seen equalled. It made nic sad to see her run so fast,
though once how it would have delighted me! I stood still;
but when she reached the church porch she again looked
over her shoulder, and again I followed her: — I did not in
the least know why. That look I think would have made
me follow her through fire and water — it has made me follow
her through fire and water. When I reached her she put the
great bla-^k key in the lock. She had some difficulty in turn-
ing the key, but I did not presume to ofifer such services as
mine to so superior a little woman. After one or two fruit-
less efforts with both her hands, each attempt accompanied
with a Httle laugh and a little merry glance in my face, she
turned the key and pushed open the door. We both passed
into the ghastly old church, through the green glass win-
dows of which the sun was shining, and illuminating the
broken remains of the high-backed pews on the opposite
side. She ran along towards the belfry, and I soon lost her,
for she passed up the stone steps, where I knew I could not
follow her.

In deep mortification I stood listening at the bottom of the
steps — listening to those little feet crunching up the broken
stones — listening to the rustle of her dress against the nar-
row stone walls, until the sounds grew fainter and fainter,
and then ceased.

Presently I heard her voice a long way up, calling out,
"Little boy, if you go outside you virill see something." I
guessed at once that she was going to exhibit herself on the
tower, where, before my accident, I and my brother Frank

■a I

lie
of

The Cymric Child 13

;re sq fond of going. I went outside the cluuch and stoo<1
tlie gFc^veyard, looking up at the tower. In a niinutc I
l\v her on it. Her face was turned towards me, gilded by
je golden sunshine. I could, or thought I could, even at
|at distance, see the Hash of the bright eyes looking at me.
len a little hand was put over the parapet, and 1 saw a
irk hat swinging by its strings, as she was waving it to
(Jh! that I could have climbed those steps and done
)at! But that exploit of hers touched a strange chord
[ithin me. Had she been a boy, I could have borne it in
jdctiant way; or had she been any other girl than this, my
;art would not have sunk as it now did when I thought
the gulf between her and me. Down I sat upon a grave,
id looked at her with a feeling quite new to me.
This was a phase of cripplehood I had not contemplated,
ic soon left the tower, and made her appearance at the
uirch door again. After locking it, which she did by
irusting a piece of stick through the handle of the key,
le came and stood over me. But I turned my eyes away
id gazed across the sea, and tried to deceive myself into
^lieving that the waves, and the gulls, and the sails dream-
ig on the sky-line, and the curling clouds of smoke that
une now and then from a steamer passing Dullingham
[oint were interesting me deeply. There was a remoteness
)out the little girl now, since I had seen her unusual agil-
r, and I was trying to harden my heart against her. Lone-
less I felt was best tor me. She did not speak, but stood
i)oking at me. I turned my eyes round and saw that she
^as looking at my crutches, which were lying beside me
slant the green hillock where I sat. Her face had turned
rave and pitiful.

"Oh! I forgot," she said. "I wish I had not run away
[•cm you now."

"You may run where you like for what I care," I said,
kit the words were very shaky and I had no sooner said
lem than I wished them back. She made no reply for some
Inie, and I sat plucking the wild flowers near my hands,
' id gazing again across the sea. At last she said:

"Would you like to come in our garden? It's such a nice
farden."

; I could resist her no longer. That voice would have drawn

le had she spoken in the language of the Toltecs or the lost

-amzummin. To describe it would of course be impossible.

1,1

»■

( !

;i (

' I i

Aylwin

The iiovelly of licr accent, the way in which she ^avc t:
"h" in "which/' "what," and "wlien," the Welsh rhytlim
her intonation, were as bewitching to me as the timbre of li
voice. And let me say here, once for all, that when I s
down to write this narrative, 1 determined to give the Kn.
lish reader some idea of the way ij which, whenever h
emotions were deeply touched, her talk would run into si
Welsh diminutives; but I soon abandoned the attempt .
despair. 1 found that to use colloquial Welsh with efifect ;
an English context is impossible withfjut wearying Engii
readers and disappointing Welsh ones.

Here, indeed, is one of the great disadvantages and;
which this book will go out to the world. While a stor
teller may reproduce by means of orthographical device
something of the effect of Scottish accent, Irish accent, c
Manx accent, such devices are powerless to represent Wel^
accent.

I got up in silence, and walked by her side- out of tl
churchyard towards her father's cottage, which was situate
between the new church and the old, and at a considerab
distance from the town of Raxton on one side, and the vi.
lage of Graylingham on the other. Her eager young liml
would every moment take her ahead of me, for she was a
vigorous as a fawn. But by the time she was half a yard i;
advance, she would recollect herself and fall back; and ever
time she did so that same look of tenderness would over
spread her face.

At last she said, "What makes you stare at me so, HttI:
boy?"

I blushed and turned my head another way, for I had beei
feasting my eyes upon her complexion, and trying to satist;
myself as to what it really was like. Indeed, I thought i;
quite peculiar then, when I had seen so few lovely faces, as !
always did afterwards, when I had seen as many as mos:
people. It was, I thought, as though underneath the sun-
burn the delicate p'nk tint of the hedgerose had become
mingled with the bloom of a ripening peach, and yet it wa;
like neither peach nor rose. But this tone, whatever it was
did not spread higher than the eyebrows. The forehead wa;
different. It had a singular kind o.* pearly look, and her
long slender throat was almost of the same tone : no, not the
same, for there was a transparency about her throat unlike
that of the forehead. This colour I was just now thinking

i 1

I n It ;M

The Cymric Child

liicli she gave \\
Wclsli rhytlini
s the timbre of h
, that when 1 s
to give the Kn,
ch, whenever h
3uhl run into si
(1 the attempt
-Ish with efifect
vearying Engii

dvantages und
While a stor

raphical device
Irish accent, 1
represent Wcl>

side- out of tl
lich was situate
It a considerali
iide, and the vi:
?er young liml
, for she was a
IS half a yard i:
back; and ever
Jss would over

at me so, littl:

, for I had beer
rying to satisi,
i, I thought 1:
'vely faces, as I
many as mos:
neath the sun-
e had become
and yet it wii
latever it was,

forehead wai
look, and her
e : no, not the

throat unlike
now thinking

10 1

t(l iiMiiclhing like the inside of a certain mysterious
shill upon my father's library shelf.

As she asked me her question she stopped, and lookcil
Itraight at me, opening her eyes wide and round upon me.
'this threw a look of innocent trustfulness over her bright
ffatures which I soon learnt was the chief characteristic of
her expression and was altogether peculiar to herself. I
knew It was very rude to stare at people as I had been star-
tog at her, and I took her question as a rebuke, although I
ftill was unable to keep my eyes off her. But it was not
merely her beauty and her tenderness that had absorbed my
attention. I had been noticing how intensely she seemed to
enjoy the delights of that summer afternoon. As we passed
along that road, where sea-scents and land-scents were
mingled, she would stop v'henever the sunshine fell full upon
ber face; her eyes would sparkle and widen with pleasure,
tnd a half-smile would play about her lips, as if som.e one
ilad kissed her. Every now and then she would stop and
Isten to the birds, putting up her finger, and with a look of
jhildish wisdom say, "Do you know what that is? That's a
ilackbird — that's a thrush — that's a goldfinch. Which eggs
lo you like best — a goldfinch's or a bullfinch's ? / know
which / like best."

III.

/Vhile we were walking along the road a souiiu fell upon
ny ears which in my hale days never produced any very un-
)leasant sensations, but which did now. I mean the cack-
ing of the field people of both sexes returning from their
lay's work. These people knew me well, and they liked me,
Lud I am sure they had no idea that when they ran past me
)n the road their looks and nods gave me no pleasure, but
)ain; and I always tried to avoid them. As they passed us
;hey somewhat modified the noise they were making, but
)nly to cackle, chatter and bawl and laugh at each other the
ouder after we were left behind.
"Don't you wish," said the little girl meditatively, "that
en and women had voices more like the birds?"
The idea had never occuired to me before, but I under-
stood in a moment what she meant, and sympathised with

ft 1

If !

Avlwin

her. Nature of course had been unkind to the lords and
ladies of creation in this one matter of voice.

"Yes, I do," I said.

"I'm so glad you do," said she. "I've so often though:
what a pity it is that God did not let men and women talk
and sing as the birds do. I believe He did let 'em talk like
that in the Garden of Eden, don't yuu?"

"I think it very likely," I said.

"Men's voices are so rough mostly and WvOmen's voices
are so sharp mostly, that it's sometimes a little hard to love
'em as you love the birds."

'It is," I said.

"Don't you think the poor birds must some^^^'mes feel very
much distressed at hearing the voices of men and women,
especially when they all talk together?"

The idea seen:.ed so original and yet so true that ii made
me laugh; we both laughed. At that moment there came a
still louder, noisier clamour of voices from the villagers.

"The rooks mayn't mind," said the little girl, pointing
upwards to the large rookery close 1»y, whence came a
noise marvellously like that made by the field-workers. "But
I'm afraid the blackbirds and thrushes c^in't like it. I do so
wonder what they say about it."

After we had left the rookery behind us and the noise of
the villagers had grown fainter, we stood and listened to the
blackbirds and thrushes. She looked so joyous that I could
not help saying, "Little girl, I think you're very happy, ain't
you?"

"Not quite," she said, as though answering a question she
had just been putting to herself. "There's not enough wind."

"Then do you like the wind?" I said in surprise and
delight.

"Oh, I love it!" she said rapturously. "I can't be quite
happy without it, can youF I like to run up the hills in
the wind and sing to it. That's when I'm happiest. I
couldn't live long without the wind."

Now it had been a deep-rooted conviction of mine that
nouv* but the gulls and I really and truly liked the wind.
"Fishermen are muffs," I used to say; "they talk about the
wind as though it w-ere an enemy, just because it drowns
one or two of 'em novv and then. Anybody can like sun-
shine; muffs can like sunshine; it takes a gull or a man to
like the wind!"

and

The Cymric Child 17

S'lch had been my egotism. But here was a girl vvlio Hked
it! We reached the gate of the garden in front of Tom's
cottage, and then we both stopped, looking over the neatly-
kept flower-garden and the white thatched cottage behind it,
up the walls of which the grape-vine leaves were absorbing
the brilliance of the sunlight and softening it. Wynne was
a gardener as well as an organist, and had gardens both in
the front and at the back of his cottage, which was sur-
rounded by fruit-trees. Drunkard as he was, his two pas-
sions, music and gardening, saved him from absolute degra-
dation and ruin. His garden was beautifully kept, and I
have seen him deftly pruning his vines when in such a state
of drink that it was wonderful how he managed to hold a
pruning-knife. Winifred opened the gate, and we passed in.
Wynne's little terrier. Snap, came barking to meet us.

There was an air of delicious peacefulness about the gar-
den. This also tended to soften that hardness of temper
which only cripples who have once rejoiced in their strength
can possibly know, I hope.

*T like to see you look so," said the little girl, as I melted
entirely under these sweet influences. "You looked so cross
before that I was nearly afraid of you."

And she took hold of my hand, not hesitatingly, but
frankly. The little fingers clasped mine. I looked at them.
They were much more sun-Lanned than her face. The little
rosy nails were shaped like Albert nuts.

"Why were you not quite afraid of me?" I asked.

"Because," said she, "under the crossness I saw that you
had great love-eyes like Snap's all the wliile. / saw it!" she
said, and laughed with delight at her great wisdom. Then
she said v/ith a sudden gravity, "You didn't mean to make
my father cry, did you, little boy?"

"No," I said.

"And you love him?" said she.

I hesitated, for I had never told a lie in my life. My
business relations with Tom haJ been of an entirely unsatis-
factory character, and the idea of any one's loving the beery
scamp presented itself in a ludicrous light. I got out of the
difficulty by saying:

"I mean to love Tom very much, if I can."

The answer did not aopcar to be entirely satisfactory tu
llie little girl, but it soon seemed to pass from her mind.

That was the most delightful afternoon I had ever spent

Aylwin

! ( i:

in my life. We seemed to become old friends in a few min-
utes, and in an hour or two she was the closest friend I had
on earth. Not all the little shoeless friends in Raxton, not
all tne beautiful sea-gulls I loved, not all the sunshine and
wind upon the sands, not all the wild bees in Graylingham
Wilderness, could give the companionship this child could
give. My flesh tingled with delight. (And yet all the while
I was not Hal the conqueror of ragamufifins, but Hal the
cripple!)

"Shall we go and get some strawberries?" she said, as
we passed to the back of the house. "They are quite ripe."

But my countenance fell at this. I was obliged to tell her
that I could not stoop.

"Ah! but / can, and I will pluck them and give them to
you. I should like to do it. Do let me, there's a good ' oy."

I consented, and hobbled by her side to the verge of the
strawberry-beds. But when I foolishly tried to follow her, I
stuck ignominiously, with my crutches sunk deep in the soft
mould of rotten leaves. Here was a trial for the conquering
hero of the coast. I looked into her face to see if there was
not, at last, a laugh upon it. That cruel human laugh was
my only dread. To everything but ridicule I had hardened
myself; but against that 1 felt helpless.

I looked into her face to see if she was laughing at my
lameness. No: her brows were merely knit with anxiety as
to how she might best relieve me. This surpassingly beauti-
ful child, then, had evidently accepted me — lameness and all
— crutches and all — as a subject of peculiar interest.

How I loved her as I put my hand upon her firm little
shoulders, while I extricated first one crutch and then an-
other, and at last got upon the hard path again !

When shci had landed me safely, she returned to the strav*^-
berry-bed, and began busily gathering the fruit, which she
brought to me in her sunburnt hands, stained to a bright
pink by the ripe fruit. Such a charm did she throw ever
me, that at last I actually consented to her putting the fruit
into my mouth.

She then told me with much gravity that she knew how to
"cure crutches." There was, she said, a famous "crutches-
well" in Wales, kept by St. Winilred (most likely an aunt of
hers, being of the same name), whose water could "cure
crutches." When she came from Wales again she would
"be sure to bring a bottle of 'crutches-water.' " She told

The Cymric Child 19

me also much about Snowdon (near which she lived), and
how, on misty days, she used to "make btlieve that she was
the Lady of the Mist, and that she was gomg to visit the
Tywysog o'r Niwl, the Prince of the Mist ; it was so nice !"

I do not know how long we kept at this, but the organist
returned and caught her in the very act of feeding me. To
be caught in this ridiculous position, even by a drunker, man,
was more than I could bear, however, and I turned and left.

As I recall that walk home along Wilderness Road, I live
it as thoroughly as I did then. I can see the rim of the sink-
ing sun burning fiery red low down between the trees on the
left, and then suddenly dropping out of sight. I can see on
the right the lustre of the high-tide sea. I can hear the "che-
ou-chew, che-eu-chew," of the wood pigeons in Grayling-
ham Wood. I can smell the very scent of the bean flowers
drinking in the evening dews. I did not feel that I was go-
ing home as the sharp gables of the Hall gleamed through
the chestnut-trees. My home for evermore was the breast
of that lovely child, between whom and myself such a
strange delicious sympathy had sprung up. I felt there was
no other home for me.

''Why, child, where have you been?" raid my mother, as
she saw me trying to slip to bed unobserved, in order that
happiness such as mine might not be brought into coarse
contact with servants. "Child, where have you been, and
what has possessed you? Your face is positively shining
with joy, and your eyes, they alarm me, they are so unnatu-
rally bright. I hope you are not going to have an illness."

I did not tell her, but went to my room, which now was
on the ground floor, and sat watching the rooks sailing
home in the sunset till the last one had gone, and the voices
of the blackbirds grew less clamorous, and the trees began
to look larger and larger in the dusk.

IV.

Thl next day I was again al Wynne's cottage, and the next,
and the next. We two, V/inifred and I, used to siiOll out
together through the narrow green lanes, and over the
happy fields, and about the Wilderness and the wood, and
along the cliffs, and then down the gangway at Flinty Point

^^ '

ll!

Aylwin

(the only gangway that was firm enough to support my
crutches, Winifred aiding me with the skill of a woman and
the agility of a child), and then along the flints below Flinty
Point. She rapidly fell into my habits. She was an adept
in finding birds' nests and wild honey; and though she
would not consent to my taking the eggs, she had not the
same compunction about the honey, and she only regretted
with me that we could not be exactly like St. John, as Gray-
lingham Wilderness yielded no locusts to eat with the
honey, Winitred, though the moct healthy of children, had
a passion for the deserted church on the clifTs, and for the
desolate churchyard.

It was one of those flint and freestone churches that are
sprinkled along the coast. Situated as it was at the back of
a curve cut by the water into the end of a peninsula running
far into the sea, the tower looked in the distance like a light-
house. I observed after the first day of our meeting that
Winifred never would mount the tower steps again. And I
knew why. So delicate were her feelings, so acute did her
kind little heart make her, that she would not mount steps
which I could never mount.

Not that Winifred looked upon me as her little lover.
There was not much of the sentimental in her. Once when
I asked her on the sands if I might be her lover, she took
an entirely practical view of the question, and promptly
replied "Certumly," adding, however, like the wise little
w^oman I always found her, that she "wasn't quite sure she
knew what a lover was, but if it was anything very nice she
should certumly like mc to be it."

It was the child's originality of manner that people found
so captivating. One of her many little tricks and waj'^s of
an original quaintness was her habit of speaking of herself
in the third person, like the merest baby. "Winifred likes
this," "Winifred doesn't like that," weie phrases that had
an irresistible fascination for me.

Another fascinating characteristic of hers was connected
with her superstitions. Whenever on parting with her I
exclaimed, as 1 often did, "Oh, what a lovely day we hcve
had, Winifred!" she would look expectantly into my eyes,

'And — and-

This meant that I was to say,

murmurmg,

"And shall have many more such days," as though there

were a prophetic power in words.

She talked with entire seriousness of havincf seen in a

The Cymric Child

seen in a

place called Fairy Glen in Wales the Tylwyth Teg. And
when I told her of Oberon and Titania, and A Midsummer
Night's Dream, whose acquaintance I had made through
Lamb's Tales from Shakspearc, she said that one bright
moonlight night she, in the company of two of her Gypsy
playmates, Rhona Boswcll and a girl called Sinfi, had visited
this same Fairy Glen, when they saw the Fairy Queen alone
on a ledge of rock, dressed in a green kirtle with a wreath
of golden leaves about her head.

Another subject upon which I loved to hear her talk was
that of the "Knockers" of Snowdon, the guardians of un-
discovered copper mines, who sometimes by knocking on
the rocks gave notice to individuals they favoured of undis-
covered copper, but these favoured ones were mostly chil-
dren who chanced to wander up Snowdon by themselves.
She had, she said, not only heard but seen these Knockers.
They were thick-set dwarfs, as broad as they were long.
One Knocker, an elderly female, had often played with her
on the hills. Knockers' Llyn, indeed, was very much on
Winifred's mind. When a golden cloud, like the one to
which she was singing her song at the time I first saw
her. shone over a person's head at Knockers' Llyn, it was
a sign of good fortune. She was sure that it was so,
because the Welsh people believed it, and so did the
Gypsies.

Not a field or a hedgerow was unfamiliar to us. We were
most learned in the structure of birds' nests, in the various
colours of birds' eggs, and in insect architecture. In all the
habits of the wild animals of the meadow^s we were most
profound little naturalists.

Winifred could in the morning, after the dews were gone,
tell by the look of a buttercup or a daisy what kind of
weather was at hand, when the most cunning peasant was
deceived by the hieroglyphics of the sky, and the most
knowing seaman could "make nothing of the wind."

Her life, in fact, had been spent in the open air.

There were people staying at the Hall, and they and
Frank engrossed all my mother's attention. At least, she
did not appear to notice my absence from home.

IMy brother F/ank, however, was not so unobservant (he
was two years older than myself). Early one morning, be-
fore breakfast, curiosity led him to fo^'ovv me, and he came
upon us iri Graylingham Wood as we were sitting under a

Aylwin

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tree close to the cliff, eating the wild honey we had found in
the Wilderness.

He stood there swinging a ground-ash cane, and looking
at her in a lordly patronising way, the very personification
no doubt of boyish beauty, I became troubled to see him
look so handsome. The contrast between him and a cripple
was not fair, I thought, as I observed an expression of pass-
ing admiration on little Winifred's face. Yet I thought there
was not the pleased smile with which she had first greeted
me, and a weight of anxiety was partially removed, for it
had now become quite evidc it to me that I was as much in
love as any swain of eighteen — it had become quite evident
that without Winifred the poor little shattered sea-gull must
perish altogether. She was literally my world.

Frank came and sat down with us, and made himself as
agreeable as possible. He tried to enter into our play, but
we were too slow for him; he soon became restless and im-
patient. "Oh bother!" he said, and got up and left us.

I drew a sigh of relief when he was gone.

"Do you like my brother, Winifred?" I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Why?"

"Because he is so pretty and so nimble. I believe he

could run up " and then she stopped; but I knew what

the complete sentence would have been. She was going to
say: "I believe he could run up the gangways without stop-
ping to take breath."

Here was a stab; but she did not notice the effect of her
unfinished sentence. Then a question came from me
involuntarily.

"Winifred," I said, "do you like him as well as you like
me?"

"Oh no," she said, in a tone of wonderment that such a
question should be asked.

"But / am not pretty and "

"Oh, but you areT she said eagerly, interrupting me.

"But," I said, with a choking sensation in my voice, "I
am lame," and I looked at the crutches lying among the
ferns beside mc.

"Ah, but I like you all the better for being lame," she
said, nestling up to me.

"But you like nimble boys," I said, "such as Frank."

She looked puzzled. The anomaly of liking nimble boys

The Cymric Child 23

and crippled boys at the same time seemed to strike her.
Yet she felt it zvas so, though it was difficult to explain it.

"Yes, I do like nimble boys," she said at last, plucking
with her fingers at a blade of grass she held between her
teeth. *'But I think I like lame boys better, that is if they
are — if they are — yon.'*

I gave an exclamation of delight. But she was two years
younger than I, and scarcely, I suppose, understood it.

''He is very pretty," she said meditatively, "but he has not
got love-eyes like you and Snap, and I don't think I could
love any little boy so very, z'cry much now who wasn't
lame."

She loved me in spite of my lameness; she loved me be-
cause I was lame, so that if I had not fallen from the cliffs,
if 1 had suslpined my glorious position among the boys of
Raxton and Graylingham as "Fighting Hal," I might never
have won little Winifred's love. Here was a revelation of
the mingled yarn of life, that I remember struck me even at
that childish age.

I began to think I might, in spite of the undoubted
crutches, resume my old place as the luckiest boy along the
sands. She loved me because I was lame! Those who say
that physical infirmity does not feminise the character have
not had my experience. No more talk for me that morning.
1 1 such a mood as that there can be no talk. I sat in a
silent dream, save when a sweet sob of delight would come
up like a bubble from the heaving waters of my soul. I had
passed into that rare and high mood when life's afflictions
are turned by love to life's deepest, holiest joys. I had begun
early to learn and know the gamut of the affections.

"When you leave me here and go home to Wales you will
never forget me Winnie?"

"Never, never!" she said, as she helped me from the ferns
which were still as wet with dew as though it had been rain-
ing. "I will think of you every night before I go to sleep,
and always end my prayers as I did that first night after I
saw you so lonely in the churchyard."

"And how is that, Winnie?" I said, as she adjusted my
crutches for me.

"After I've said 'Amer,' I always say, 'And, dear Lord
Jesus, don't forget to love dear Henry, who can't get up the
gangways without me,' and T will say that every night as
long as i live."

Aylwin

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From that morninf; I considered her altogether mine. Her
speaking of me as the "dear Httle EngHsh boy," however,
as she did, marred the delight her words gave me. I had
from the first observed that the child's strongest passion
was a patriotism of a somewhat fiery kind. The word Eng-
lish in her mouth seemed sometimes a word of reproach:
it was the name of the race that in the past had invaded her
sacred Snowdonia.

I afterwards learnt that her aunt was answerable for this
senseless prejudice.

"Winnie," I said, "don't you wish I was a Welsh boy?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "Don't you?"

1 made no answer.

She looked into my face and said, "And yet I don't think I
could love a Welsh boy as I love you."

She then repeated to me a verse of a Welsh song, which
of course I did not understand a word of until she told me
what it meant in English.

It was an address to Snowdon, and ran something like
this—

"Mountain-wild Snowdon for me!
Sweet silence there for the harp,
Where loiter the ewes and the lambs
In the moss and the rushes,
Where one's song goes sounding up!
And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher,
In the height where the eagles live."

In this manner about six weeks slid away, and Winnie's
visit to her father came to an end. I ask, how can people
laugh at the sorrows of childhood? The bitterness of my
misery as I sat with that child on the eve of her departure
for Wales (which to me seemed at the extreme end of the
earth) '"as almost on a par with anything I have since suf-
fered, and that is indeed saying a great deal. It was in
Wynne's cottage, and I sat on ihe floor with her wet cheeks
close to mine, saying, "She leaves me alone." Tom tried to
console me by telling me that Winifred would soon come
back.

"But when?" I said.

"Next year," said Tom.

He might as well have said next century, for any consola-
tion it gave me. The idea of a year without her was alto-
gether beyond my grasp. It seemed infinite.

The Cymric Child

Week after week passed, and month after month, and
Httle Winifred was always in my thonglits. Wynne's cot-
tage was a sacred spot to me, and the organist the most in-
teresting man in the world. I never tired of asking him
questions about her, though he, as I soon found, knew
scarcely anything concerning her and what she was doing,
and cared less; for love of drink had got thoroughly hold
of him.

Letters were scarce visitants to him, and I believe he
never used to hear from Wales at all.

At the end of the year she came again, and I had about a
year of happiness. I was with her every day, and every day
she grew more necessary to my existence.

It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Win-
nie's friend Rhona Boswell, a charming little Gypsy girl.
Graylingham Wood and Rington Wood, like the entire
neighbourhood, were favourite haunts of a superior kind of
Gypsies called Griengroes, that is to say, horse-dealers.
Their business was to buy ponies in Wales and sell them in
the Eastern Counties and the East Midlands. Thus it was
that Winnie had known many of the East Midland Gypsies
in Wales. Compared with Rhona Boswell, who was more like
a fairy ihan a child, Winnie seemed quite a grave little per-
son. Rhona's limbs were always on the move, and the move-
ment sprang always from her emotions. Her laugh seemed
to ring through the woods hke silver bells, a sound that it
was impossible to mistake for any other. The laughter of
most Gypsy girls is full of music and of charm, and yet
Rhona's laughter was a sound by itself, and it was no doubt
this which afterwards when she grew up attracted my kins-
man, Percy Aylwin, towards iier. It seemed to emanate not
from her throat merely, but from her entire frame. If one
could imagine a strain of merriment and fun blending with
the ecstatic notes of a skylark soaring and singing, one might
form some idea of the laugh of Rhona Boswell. Ah, what
days they were! Rhona would come from Gypsy Dell, a
romantic place in Rington Manor some miles off, especially

I '

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Aylwin

lu show us sunie newly devised coronet of flowers that sir
had been weaving for herself. This induced Winnie to
weave for herself a coronet of sea-weeds, and an eniire morn-
ing was passed in grave discussion as to which coronet ex-
celled the other.

A year had made a great difference in Winnie, a much
greater difference than it had made in me. Her aunt, who
was no doubt a well-informed woman, had been attending
to her education. In a single year she had taught her French
so thoroughly that Winnie was in the midst of Dumas's
Monte Crista. And apart from education in the ordinary
acceptation of the word, the expansion of her mind had been
rapid and great.

Her English vocabulary was now far above mine, far
above that of most children of her age. This I discovered
was owing to the fact that a literary English lady of delicate
health. Miss Dalrymple, whose slender means obliged her
to leave the Capel Curig Hotel, had been staying at the cot-
tage as a lodger. She had taken the greatest delight in edu-
cating Winnie. Of course Winnie lost as well as gained by
this change. She was a little Welsh rustic no longer, but
a little lady unusually well equipped, as far as education
went, for taking her place in the world.

She understood fully now what I meant when I told her
that we were betrothed, and again showed that minghng of
child-wisdom and poetry which characterised her by sug-
gesting that we should be married on Snowdon, and that her
wedding-dress should be the green kirtle and wreath of the
fairies, and that her bridesmaids should be her Gypsy
friends, Sinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell. This I acceded to
with alacrity.

It was now that I fully realised for the first time her ex-
traordinary gift of observation and her power of describing
what she had observed in the graphic language that can
never be taught save by the teacher Nature herself. In a
dozen picturesque words she would flash upon my very
senses the scene that she was describing. So vividly did she
bring before my eyes the scenery of North Wales, that when
at last I went there it seemed quite familiar to me. And so
in describing individuals, her pictures of them were like
photographs.

Graylingham Wood was our favourite haunt. This place
and the adjoining piece of waste land, called the Wilderness,

lowers that sli-
ced Winnie to
an entire morn-
ich coronet ex-

'''innie, a much
Her aunt, who
been attending
g:ht her French
St of Dumas's
1 the ordinary
mind had been

ove mine, far
3 I discovered
idy of delicate
IS obliged her
ing at the cot-
elight in edu-
as gained by

longer, but
as education

len I told her
t mingling of
her by sug-
, and that her
wreath of the
J her Gypsy

1 acceded to

time her ex-
3f describing
ige that can
erself. In a
on my very
^idly did she
s, that when
me. And so
n were like

This place
Wilderness,

The Cymric Child 27

hail fur us all tiic charms of a primeval forest. Hgre in the
tarly spring \\c used to come and watch the first violet up-
' lifting its head from the dark green leaves behind the mossy
holes, and listen for the first note of the blackcap, the night-
ingale's herald, and the first coo of the wood-pigeons among
the bare and newly-budding trees. And here, in the sum-
mer, we used to come as soon as breakfast was over with
as many story-books as we could carry, and sit on the grass
and revel in the wonders of the Arabian Nights, the Tales of
the Genii, and the Seven Champions of Christendom, till all
the leafy alleys of the woods were glittering with armed
knights and Sindbads and Aladdins. The story of Camaral-
zaman and Badoura was, I think, Winnie's chief favourite.
She could repeat it almost word for word. The idea of the
Lwo lovers being carried to each other by genii through the
air and over the mountain tops had an especial fascination
for her. I was Camaralzaman and she Badoura, and the
'^i^rni would carry me to her as she sat by Knockers' Llyn,
or, as she called it, Llyn Coblynau, un ihe lower slopes of
Snowdon.

But above all, there was the sea on the other side of the
wood, of the presence v^f which we were always conscious —
the sea, of which we could often catch glimpses between the
trees, lending a sense of freedom and wonder and romance
such as no landscape can lend. Our great difficulty of
course was in connection with my lameness. Few children
would have tried to convey a pair of crutches and a lame leg
down the cliff to the long, level, brown sands that lay, farther
than the eye could reach, stretched beneath miles on miles of
brown crumbling cliffs, whose jagged points and indentations
had the kind of spectral look peculiar to that coast. For,
alas! the holy water Winifred brought did not "cure the
crutches." Yet we used to master the" difficulty, always
selecting the firmer gangway at Flinty Point, and always
waiting, before making the attempt, until there was no one
near to see us toihng down. Once down on the hard sands
just below the Point, we were happy, paddling and enjoy-
ing ourselves till the sunset told us that we must begin our
herculean labour of hoisting the leg and crutches up the
gangway back to the wood. I have performed many athletic
feats since my cure, but nothing comparable to the feat of
climbing with crutches up those paths of yielding sand. To
myself, now, it seems almost incredible that it was ever

( ;

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Ayl

win

achieved, nor could it have been done without the aid of
so active and courageous a friend as Winifred.

We knew Nature in all her moods. In every aspect we
found the sea, the wood, and the meadows, happy and beau-
tiful — in winter as in summer, in storm as in sunshine. In
the foggy days of November, in the sharp winds of March,
in the snows and sleet and rain of February, we used to hear
other people complain of the bad weather; we used to hear
them fret for change. But we despised them for their ig-
norance where we were so learned. There was no bad
weather for us. In March, what so delicious as breasting
together the brave wind, and feeling it tingle our cheeks and
beat our ears till we laughed at each other with joy? In
rain, what so delicious as to stand under a tree or behind a
hedge and listen to the drops pattering overhead among the
leaves, and see the fields steaming up to meet them? Then
again the soft falling of snow upon the lonely fields, while
the very sheep looked brown against the whiteness gather-
ing round them. All beautiful to us two, and beloved!

•i '11

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VI.

"But where was this little boy's mother all this time?" you
naturally ask; "where was his father? In a word, who
was he? and what were his surroundings?"

I will answer these queries in as brief a fashion as possible.

My father, Philip Aylwin, belonged to a branch of an
ancient family which had been satirically named by another
branch of the same family "The Proud Aylwins."

It is a singular thing that it was the proud Aylwins who
had a considerable strain of Gypsy blood in their veins. My
great-grandfather har married Fenella Stanley, the famous
Gypsy beauty, ahov.^ .vrhom so much was written in the
newspapers and magazines of that period, and whose por-
trait in the character of the Sibyl of Snowdon was painted
by the great portrait painter of that time.

This picture still hangs in the portrait gallery of Raxton
Hall.

As a child it had an immense attraction for me, and no
wonder, for it was original to actual eccentricity. It de-

tt the aid of

The Cyn-.icXIiild 29

picted a dark young woman of dazzling beauty standing at
break of day among mountain scenery, holding a musical
instrument of the guitar kind, but shaped like a violin, upon
the lower strings of which she was playing with the thumb
of the left hand.

Through the misty air were seen all kinds of shadowy
shapes, whose eyes were fixed on the player. I used to
stand and look at this picture by the hour together^ fasci-
nated by the strange beauty of the singer's face and the
mysterious, prophetic expression of the eyes.

And I used to try to imagine what tune it was that could
call from the mountain air the "flower sprites" and "sun-
shine elves" of morning on the mountain.

Fenella Stanley seems in her later life to have set up as a
positive seeress, and I infer from certain family papers and
diaries in my possession that she was the veiy embodiment
of the wildest Romany beliefs and superstitions.

I first became conscious of the mysterious links which
bound me to my Gypsy ancestress by reading one of her
letters to my great-grandfather, who had taught her to
write: nothing apparently could have taught her to spell. It
was written during a short stay she was making away from
him in North Wales. It described in the simplest (and often
the most uncouth) words that Nature-ecstasy which the
Romanies seem to feel in the woodlands. It came upon me
like a revelation, for it was the first time I had ever seen
embodied in words the sensations which used to come to
me in the Graylingham Wood or on the river that ran
through it. After long basking among the cowslips, or be-
neath the whispering branches of an elm, whose shade I was
robbing from the staring cows around, or lying on my back
in a boat on the river, listening to the birds and the insect
hum and all the magic music of summer in the woodlands,
I used all at once to feel as though the hand of a great en-
chantress were being waved before me and around me. The
wheels of thought would stop; all the senses would melt
into one, and I would float on a tide of unspeakable joy, a
tide whose waves were waves neither of colour, nor perfume,
nor melody, but new w^aters born of the mixing of these;
and, through a language deeper than words and deeper than
thoughts, I would seem carried at last close to an actual
consciousness — a consciousness which, to my childish
dreams, seemed drawing me close to the bosom of a mother

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HNMMi

30 Aylwin

whose face would brighten into that of Fenella. My father
lived upon moderate means in the little seaside town of
Kaxton. ]\iy mother was his second wife, a distant cousin
of the bame name. She was not one of the "Proud Ayl-
wins," and yet she must have had more pride in her heart
than ail the "Proud Aylwins" put together. Her feeling in
relation to the strain of Gypsy blood in the family into which
she had married ^vas that of positive terror. She associated
the word "Gypsy" with everything that is wild, passionate
and lawless.

One great cause undoubtedly of her partiality for Frank
and her dislike of me was that Frank's blue-eyed Saxon face
showed no sign whatever of the Romany strain, while my
swarthy face did.

As I write this, she lives before me with more vividness
than my father, for the reason that her character during my
childhood, before I came to know my father thoroughly —
before I came to know what a marvellous man he was —
seemed to be a thousand times more vivid than his. With
her bright grey eyes, her patrician features, I shall see her
while memory lasts. The only differences that ever arose
between my father and my mother were connected with the
fact that my father had had a former wife. Now and then
(not often) my mother would lose her stoical self-command,
and there would come from her an explosion of jealous
anger, stormy and terrible. This was on occasions when she
perceived that my father's memory retained too vividly the
impression left on it of his love for the wife who was dead —
dead, but a rival still. Aly father lived in mortal fear of this
jealousy. Yet my mother was a devoted and a fond wife. I
remember in especial the flash that would come from her
eyes, the fiery flush that would overspread her face, when-
ever she saw my father open a certain antique silver casket
which he kept in his escritoire when at hom?*, and carried
about with him when travelling. The casket (I soon learned)
contained mementoes of his first wife, between whom and
himself there seems to have been a deep natural sympathy
such as did not exist between my mothci and him. This
first wife he had lost under peculiarly painful circumstances,
which it is necessary that I should briefly narrate. She had
been drowned before his very eyes in that cove beneath the
church which I have already described.

The semicircular indentation at the end of the peninsula

The Cymric Child 31

or headland on wliicli the cliurch stood was specially dan-
gerous in two ways. It was a fatal spot where sea and land
were equally treacherous. On the sands the tide, and on the
cliffs the landslip, imperilled the lives of the unwary. Half,
av least, of the churchyard had been condemned as "danger-
ous," and this very same spot was the only one on the coast
where the pedestrian along the sands ran any serious risk of
being entrapped by the tide; for the peninsula on which the
church stood jutted out for a considerable distance into the
sea, and then was scooped out in the form of a boot-jack,
and so caught the full force of the waves. One corner, as
already mentioned, was called Flinty Point, the other Needle
Point, and between these two points there was no gangway
within the semicircle up the wall of cliff. Indeed, within the
cove the cliff was perpendicular, or rather overhanging, as
far as such crumbling earth would admit of its overhanging.
To reach a gangway, a person inside the cove would have
to leave the cliff wall for the open sands, and pass round
either Needle Point or Flinty Point. Hence the cove was
sometimes called Mousetrap Cove, because when the tide
reached so high as to touch these two points, a person on the
sands within the cove was caught as in a mousetrap, and the
only means of extrication was by boat from the sea. It w^as
the irresistible action of the sea upon the peninsula (called
Church Fleadland) that had doomed church and churchyard
to certain destruction.

Dangerous as was this cove, there was something pe-
culiarly fascinating about it. The black, smooth, undulating
boulders that dotted the sand here and there formed the
most delightfu: seats upon which to meditate or read. It
was a favourite spot with my father's first wife, who had
been a Swiss governess. She was a great reader and stu-
dent, but it was not till after her death that my father be-
came one. The poor lady was fond of bringing her books
to the cove, and pursuing her studies or meditations with the
sound of the sea's chime in her ears. My father, at that time
I believe a simple, happy country squire, but showing strong
signs of Romany ancestry, had often warned her of the risk
she ran, and one day he had the agony of seeing her from
the cliff locived in the cove, and drowning before his eyes ere
a boat could be got, while h'i and the coastguard stood pow-
erless to reach her.

The effect of this shock demented my father for a time.

<'■ *

•I

32 Aylwin

How it was that he came to marry again I could never un-
derstand. During my childhood he had, as far as I could
see, no real sympath}'^ with anything save his own dreams.
In after years I came to know the truth. He was kind
enough in disposition, but he looked upon us, his childrer,
as his second wife's property, his dreams as his own. Once
every year he used to go to Switzerland and stay there for
several weeks; and, as the object of these journeys was evi-
dently to revisit the old spots made sacred to him by remi-
niscences of his romantic love for his first wife, it may be
readily imagined that they were not looked upon with any
favour by my mother. vShe never accompanied him on these
occasions, nor would she let Frank do so — another proof of
the early partiality she showed for my brother. As I was
of less importance, my father (previous to my accident) used
to take me, to my intense delight and enjoyment; but dur-
ing the period of my lameness he went to Switzerland alone.

It was during one of my childish visits to Switzerland tl"''t
I learnt an important fact in connection with my fathr" £'- i
his first wife — the fact that since her death he had become a
mystic and had joined a certain sect of mystics founded by
Lavater.

This is how I came to know it. My attention had been
arrested by a book lying on my father's writing-tR-ble — a
large book called "The Veiled Queen, by Philip Aylwin" —
and I began to read it. The statements therein were of an
astounding kind, and the idea of a beautiful woman behind
a veil completely fascinated m> childish mind. And the
book was full of the most amazing stories collected from all
kinds of outlandish sources. One story, called 'The Flying
Donkey of the Ruby Hills," riveted my attention so much
that it possessed me, and even now I feel that I can repeat
every word of it. It was a story of a donkey-driver, who,
having lost his wife Alawiyah, went and lived alone in the
ruby hills of Badakhshan, where the Angel of Memory
fashioned for him out of his own sorrow and tears an image
of his wife. This image was mistaken by a tov/nsman named
Hasan for his own wife, and Ja'afar was summoned before
the Ka'dee. Afterwards, when The Veiled Queen came into
my possession, I noticed that this story was quoted for
motto on the title-page:

" 'Thr^n,' quoth the Ka'dee, laughing until his grinders
appeared, 'rather, by Allah, would I take all the punishment

The Cymric Child

thou dreadest, thou most false donkey-driver of the Ruby
Hills, than believe this story of thine — this mad, mad story,
that she with whom thou wast seen was not the living wife
of Hasan here (as these four legal witnesses have sworn),
but thine own dead spouse, Alavv* -ah, refashioned for thee
by the Angel of Memory out of thine own sorrow and un-
quenchable fountain of tears.'

"Quoth Ja'afar, bowing low his head: 'Bold is the donkey-
driver, O Ka'dee ! and bold the ka'dee who dares say what
he will believe, what disbelieve — not knowing in any wise
the mind of Allah — not knowing in any wise his own heart
and what it shall some day suffer.' "

This story f o absorbed me that when my father re-entered
the house I was perfectly unconscious of his presence. He
took the book ^rom me, saying it was not a book for chil-
dren. It possessed my mind for some days. What I had
read in it threw light upon certain conversations in French
and German which I had heard between my father and his
Swiss friends, and the fact gradually dawned upon me that
he believed himself to be in direct communication with the
spirit of his dead wife. This so acted upon my imagination
tliat I began to feel that she was actually alive, though in-
visible. I told Frank when we got home tLat we had an-
other mother in Switzerland, and that our father went to
Switzerland to see her.

Having at that time a passionate love for my mother (a
love none the less passionate because somewhat coldly re-
turned), I felt great anger against this resuscitated rival; but
Frank only laughed and called me a stupid little fool.

Luckily Frank forgot my story in a minute, and it never
reached my mother's ears.

Some years after this an odd incident occurred. The idea
of a veiled lady had, as I say, fascinated me. One Raxton
^ :r-day I induced Winnie to be photographed on the sands,
wearing a crown of sea-flowers in imitation of Rhona Bos-
well's famous wild-flower coronet, and a necklace of sea-
weed, with Frank and another boy lifting from her head
a long white veil of my mother's. My father accidentally
saw this photograph and was so taken with it that he
adorned the title-page of the third edition of The Veiled
Queen with a small woodcut of it.

These vagaries of my father's had an influence upon my
destiny of the most tragic, yet of the most fantastic kind.

■r^.

!
I i

Aylwin

He had the reputation, I believe, of being one of the most
learned mystics of his time. He was a fair Hebrew scholar,
and also had a knowledge of Sanscrit, Arabic, and Persian.
His passion for philology was deep-rooted. He was a no less
ardent numismatist. Moreover, he was deeply versed in
amulet-lore. He wrote a treatise upon "amulets" and their
inscriptions. All this was after the death of his first wife.
He had a large collection of amulets. Gnostic gems and
abraxas stones. That he really believed in the virtue of
amulets will be pretty clearly seen as my narrative proceeds.
Indeed the subject of amulets and love-tokens became a
mania with him. After his death it was said that his collec-
tion of amulets, Egyptian, Gnostic, and other, was rarer, and
his collection of St. Helena coin" larger, than any other
collection in England.

Though my mother did not know of the spiritualistic
orgies in Switzerland, she knew that my father was a spir-
itualist. And this vexed her, not only because she con-
ceived it to be visionary folly, but because it was "low." She
knew that it led him to join a newly-formed band of Latter-
Day mystics which had been organised at Raxton, but
luckily she did not know that through them he believed him-
self to be holding communication with his first wife. The
members of this body were tradespeople of the town, and I
quite think that in my mother's eyes all tradespeople were
low.

As to her indifference towards me, — that is easily ex-
plained. I was an incorrigible little bohemian by nature.
She despaired of ever changing me. During several years
this indifference distressed rne, though it in no way dimin-
ished my affection for her. At last, however, I got accus-
tomed to it and accepted it as inevitable. But the remark-
able thing vvas that Frank's affection for his mother was of
the most languid kind. He was an open-hearted boy, and
never took advantage of my mother's favouritism. Thus I
was left entirely to my own resources. My little love-idyl
with Winifred was for a long tine unknown to my mother,
and no amount of ocular demonstration could have made it
known (in such a dream was he) to my father.

On one occasion, liowever, my mother, having been
struck by her beauty at churcli. told Wynne to bring her to
the house, little thinking wliat she was doing. Accordingly,
Winifred came one evening and charmed my mother,

The Cymric Child 35

charmed the entire household, by her grace of manner. My
mother, upon whom what she called "style" made a far
greater impression than anything else, pronounced her to be
a perfect lady, and I heard her remark that she wondered
how the child of such a scapegrace as Wynne could have
been so reared.

Unfortunately I was not old enough to disguise the trans-
ports of delio^ht that set my heart beating and my crippled
limbs trembling as I saw Winifred gliding like a fairy about
the house and gardens, and petted even by my proud and
awful mother. My mother did not fail to notice this, and
l)efDre long she had got from Frank the history of our little
loves, and even of the "cripple water" from St. Winifred's
Well. I partly heard what Frank was telling her, and I was
the only one to notice the expression of displeasure that
overspread her features. She did not, however, show it to
the child, but she never invited her there again, and from
that evening was much more vigilant over my movements,
lest I should go to Wynne's cottage. I still, however, con-
tinued to meet Winifred in Graylingham Wood during her
stay with her father; and at last, when she again left me, I
felt desolate indeed.

I wrote her a letter, and took it to him to address. He
was very fond of showing his penmanship, which was re-
markably good. He had indeed been well educated, though
from his beer-house associations he bad entirely caught the
rustic accent. I saw him address it, and took it myself to
the post-office at Rington, where I was not so well known as
at Raxton, but I never got any reply.

And who was Tom Wynne? Though the organist of the
new church at Raxton, and custodian of the old deserted
church on the cHfifs, he was the local ne'er-do-well, drunk-
ard, and scapegrace. He was, however, a well-connected
man, reduced to his present position by drink. He had lived
in Raxton until he returned to Wales, which was his birth-
place — having obtained there some appointment the nature
of which I never could understand. In Wales he had got
married; and there his wife had died shortly after the birth
of Winnie. It was no doubt through his intemperate habits
ihat he lost his post in Wales. It was then that he again
rame to Raxton, leaving the child with his sister-in-law.

Raxton stands on that part of the coast where the land-
springs most persistently disintegrate the hills and render

I ^fJBIKKSSSOBi^f ' ' "BVM

ii^

' *

Aylwin

them helpless against the ravages of the sea. Perhaps even
within the last few centuries the spot called Mousetrap Cove,
scooped out of the peninsula on which the old church stands,
was dry land. The old Raxton church at the end of this
peninsula had, not many years since, to be deserted for a
new one, lest it should some day carry its congregation with
it when it slides, as it soon will slide, into the sea. But as
none had dared to pull down the old church, a custodian had
to be found who for a pittance wouH take charge of it and
of the important monuments it contains. Such a custodian
was found in Wynne, who lived in the cottage already de-
scribed on the Wilderness Road. Along this road (which
passed both the new church and the old) I was frequently
journeying, and Wynne's tall, burly form and ruddy face
were, even before I knew Winnie, a certain comfort to me.

He was said to be the last remnant of an old family that
once owned much land in the neighbourhood, and he was
still the recipient of a small pension. My father used to
say tha' Wynne's family was e\en exceptionally good, that
it laid claim to being descended from a still older Welsh fam-
ily. But my mother scorned the idea, and always treated
the organist as belonging to the lower classes. It was
Wynne who had taught me swimming. It was really he,
ana not my groom, who had taught me how to ride a horse
along the low-tide sands so as not to distress him or damage
his feet.

It was about this time that my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley,
my mother's brother, who had quarrelled with her, became
reconciled to her, and came to Raxton. He at once recom-
mended that a friend of his, a famous London surgeon,
should be consultc 1 about my lameness. I accordingly
went with him to London to be placed under the treatment
of the eminent man. Had this been done earlier, what a
world of suffering might have been spared me! The man
of science pronounced my ailment to be quite curable.

He performed an operation upon the leg, and after a long
and careful course of treatment in town, advised that I
should go to Margate for a long stay, and avail myself of
that change of air. I went, accompanied by my mother and
brother, and stayed there several months. My father used
to come to see us once a month or so, stay for a week, and
then go back.

As the surgeon had prophesied, I made snch advance that

The Cymric Child

I was after a while able to walk with tolerable ease without
my crutches, by the aid of a wallcing-stick; and as time went
on, the tonic effect of Margate air, aiding the remedies
prescribed by the surgeon, worked such a change in me
that I was pronounced well, and the doctor said I might
return home. I returned to Raxton a cripple no longer.

I returned cured, I say. But how entangled is this web of
our life! How almost impossible is it that good should come
unmixed with evil, or evil unmixed with good ! At Margate,
where the bracing air did more, I doubt not, towards my
restoration to health than all the medicines, — at Margate my
brother drank in his death-poison.

During the very last days of our stay he caught scarlet
fever. In a fortnight he was dead. The shock to me was
very severe. It laid my mothei prostrate for months.

I was now by the death of Frank the representative of our
branch of the family, and a little fellow of uncomfortable im-
portance. My uncle Aylwin of Alvanley, being childless, was
certain to leave me his large estates, for he had dropped en-
tirely away from the Aylwins of Rington Manor, and also
from the branch of the Aylwin family represented by my
cousin Cyril.

II.

The Moonlight Cross
of the Gnostics

II THK MOONLIGHT CROSS

OF THE GNOSTICS

My mother had some prejudice against a public school, and
1 was sent to a large and important private one at Cam-
bridge.

And so, with Winifred on my mind, I went one damp win-
ter's morning to Dullingham, our nearest railway station, on
my way to Cambridge.

As concerns my school-days I feel that all that will inter-
est the reader is this: as I rode through mile upon mile of the
flat, vide-stretching country, I made to myself a vow in con-
nection v;ith Winifred, — a vow that when I left school I
would do a certain thing in relation to her, though Fate itself
should say, "This thing shall not be done." I did not know
then, as I know now, how weak is human will enmeshed in
that web of Circumstance that has been a-weaving since the
beginning of the world.

I left school without the slightest notion as to what my
future course in life was to be. I was to take my rich uncle's
property. That was understood now. And although my
mother never talked of the matter, I could see in the pensive
gaze she bent on me an ever-present consciousness of a fu-
ture for me more golden still.

But now I formed a new intimacy, and one of a very sin-
gular kind — an intimacy with my father, who suddenly woke
up to the fact that I was no longer a child. It occurred on
my making some pertinent inquiries about a certain Gnostic
amulet representing the Gorgon's head, a prize of which he
had lately become the happy possessor. On his telling me
that the Arabic word for amulet was hamalct, and that the
word meant "that which is suspended," I said in a perfectly

Aylwin

^f.

iliuuglitlcss way that very likely one of the IcarncJ societies
to which he belonged might be able to trace some connec-
tion between "hamalet" and the "Hamlet" of Shakspeare.
These idle and ignorant words of mine fell, as 1 found, upon
a mind ripe to receive them. He looked straight before him
at the bust of Sliakspeare on the bookshelves, as he always
looked when his rudderless imagination was once well
launched, and I heard him mutter, "Hamlet — the Amleth of
Saxo-Grammatieus, — hamalet, 'that which is suspended.'
The world, to Hamlet's metaphysical mind, zvas 'suspended'
in the wide region of Nowhere — in an infinite ocean of
Nothing. Why did I not think of this before? Strange that
this child should hit upon it." Then looking at me as though
he had just seen me for the first time in his life, he said,
"How old are you, child?" "Eighteen, father," I said.
''Eighteen ycarsF" he asked. "Yes, father," I said with some
pique. "Did you suppose I meant eighteen months?" "Only
eighteen years," he muttered, "a mere baby, in short; and
yet he has hit upon wliat we Shakspearians have been bog-
gling over for many years — the symbolical meaning involved
in Hamlet's name. Henry, I prophesy great things for yon."

An intimacy was cemented between us at once. On ^
the results of this conversation was my father's elabc
paper, read before one of his societies, in which he main-
tained that Shakspeare's Hamlet was a metaphysical poem,
the great central idea of which was involved in the name
Hamlet, Amleth, or Hamalet — the idea that the universe,
suspended in the wide region of Nowhere, Hes, an amulet,
upon the breast of the Great Latona, — a paper that was the
basis of his reputation in "the higher criticism."

Shortly after this my father and I spent the autumn in
various parts of Switzerland. One night, when we were sit-
ting outside the chalet in the full light of the moon, I was the
witness of a display of passion on the part of one whom I
had always considered to be a dreamy book-worm — a pas-
sionless, eccentric mystic — that simply amazed me. A flick-
ering tongue from the central fires suddenly breaking up
through the soil of an English vegetable garden could hardly
have been a more unexpected phenomenon to me than what
occurred on that memorable night.

The incident I am going to relate showed me how rash
it is to supppose that you have really fathomed the person-
ality of any human creature. The mementoes of his first

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 43

wife, which accompanied him vvhillicisocvcr he went, ab-
sorbed his attention in Switzerland, and especially in the
little place where she was born, far more than they had done
at home. He was forever peeping furtively into his escri-
toire to enjoy the sight of tliem, and then looking over his
shoulder to see if he was being watched by my mother,
though she was far away in Raxton Hall. On the night in
question he showed me the silver casket containing certain
of these mementoes — mementoes which 1 felt to be almost
too intimate to be shown even to his son.

"And now, Henry," said he, "1 am going to show you
something that no one else has ever seen since she died — the
most sacred possession I have upon this earth." He then
opened his shirt and his vest, and showed me lying upon his
naked bosom a beautiful jewelled cross of a considerable
size. "This," said he, lifting it up, "is an ancient Gnostic
amulet. It is called the 'Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics.'
I gave it to her on the night of our betrothal. She was a
Roman Catholic. It is made of precious stones cut in facets,
with rubies and diamonds and beryls so cunningly set that,
when the moonlight falls on them, tl ■ cross flashes almost as
brilliantly as when the sunlight fall.^ on them and is kindled
into living fire. These deep-coloured crimson rubies — al-
most as clear as diamonds — are not of the ordinary kind.
They are true 'C)riental rubies,' and the jewellers would tell
you that the mine which produced them has been lost during
several centuries. But look here when I lift it up; the most
wonderful feature of the jewel is the skill with which the dia-
monds are cut. The only shapes generally known are what
are called the 'brilliant' and the 'rose,' but here the facets are
arranged in an entirely different way, and evidently with the
view of throwing light into the very hearts of the rubies, and
producing this peculiar radiance."

He lifted the amulet again (which was suspended from his
neck by a beautifully worked cord made of soft brown hair)
into the rays from the moon. The light the jewel emitted
was certainly of a strange and fascinating kind. The cross
had been worn with the jewelled front upon his bosom in-
stead of the smooth back, and the sharp facets of the cross
had lacerated the scarred flesh underneath in a most cruel
manner. He saw me shudder and understood why.

"Oh, I like that!" he said, with an ecstatic smile. "I like
to feel it constantly on my bosom. It cannot cut deep

ti^H

(•+'

Aylwin

enough for me. This is her hair," he said, taking the hair-
cord between his fingers and kissing it.

"How do you manage to exist, father," I said, "with that
heavy sharp-edged jewel on your breast? you who cannot
bear the gout with patience?"

"Exist? I could not exist without it. The gout is pain —
this is not pain; it is joy, bUss, heaven! When I am dead it
must lie for ever on my breast as it lies now, or I shall never
rest in my grave."

He had been talking about amulets in the most quiet and
matter-of-fact way during that morning; but the moment he
produced this cross a strange change came over his face,
something like the change that will come over a dull wood-
fire when blown by the vvind into a bright life of flame.

"Ha!" he muttered to himself, as his eyes widened and
sparkled with a look of intense eagerness and his hand
shook, sending the light of the beautiful jewel all about the
room, "it is a sad pity he was not her son. How I should
have loved him then! I Hke him now very much; but how I
should have loved him then, for he is a brave boy. Oh, if I
had only been born brave like him 1" Then, suddenly recol-
lecting himself, he closed his vest,, and said : 'Don't tell your
motiier, Hal ; don't tell your mother that I have shoAvn you
this." Then he took it out again. "She who is dead cher-
ished it," he continued, half to himself — "she cherished it
above all things. She died, boy, and I couldn't help her.
She used to v^^ear the cross in the bosom of her dress ; and
there she was in the cove kissing it when the tide swept Dver
her. I or.ght to have jumped down and died with her. You
would have done it, Hal ; your eyes say so. Ch, to be an
Aylwin without the Aylwin courage !"

After a little time he said: "This has lain on her bosom,
Hal, her bosom ! It has oeen kissed by her, Hal, oh, a
thousand thousand times ! It had her last kiss. When I took
it from the cold body which had been recovered, this cross
seemed to be warm with her life and love."

And then he wept, and his tears fell thick upon his bosom
and upon the amulet. The truth was clear enough now.
The appalling death of his first wife, his love for her, and his
remorse for not having jumped dovv^n the cliff and died with
her, had affected his brain. He was a monomaniac, and all
his thoughts were in some way clustered round the dominant
one. He had studied amulets because the "Moonlight

the hair-

.vith that
cannot

pain —
dead it
all never

uiet and
ment he
bis face,
11 vvood-
e.

ned and
lis hand
Dout the
[ should
It how I
Oh, if I
y recol-
:e]l your
>vvn you
id cher-
ished it
elp her.
;ss ; and
2pt Dver
Jr. You
be an

bosom,
!, oh, a
1 1 took
is cross

bosom
h now.
and his
id with
and all
minant
Dnlight

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 45

Cross" had been cherished by her; he came to Switzerland
every year because it was associated with her; he had joined
the spiritualist body in the mad hope that perhaps there
might be something in it, perhaps there might be a power
that could call her back to earth. Even the favourite occu-
pation of his life, visiting cathedrals and churches and taking
rubbings from monumental brasses, had begun after her
death; it had come from the fact (as I soon learned) that she
had taken interest in monumental brasses, and had begun
the coHection of rubbings.

And yet this martyr to a mighty passion bore the char-
acter of a dreamy student; and his calm, unfurrowed face, on
common occasions, expressed nothing but a rather dull kind
of content! Here was a revelation of what, afterwards, was
often revealed to me, that human personality is the crowning
wonder of this wonderful universe, and that the forces which
turn fire-mist into stars are not more inscrutable than is
human character. He lifted up his head and gazed at me
through his tears.

"Hal," he said, "do you know why I have shown you this?
It must, MUST be buried with me at my death; and there is
no one upon whose energy, truth, courage, and strength of
will I can rely as I can upon yours. You must give me your
word, Hal, that you will see it and this casket containing her
letters buried with me."

I hesitated to become a party to such an undertaking as
this. It savoured of superstition, I thought. Now, having
at that very time abandoned all the superstitions and all the
mystical readings of the universe which as a child I had in-
herited from ancestors, Romany and English, having at
that very time begun to take a delight in the wonderful reve-
lations of modern science, my attitude towards superstition
— towards all supernaturalism — oscillated between anger
and simple contempt.

"But," I said, "you surely will not have this beautiful old
cross buried ?" And as I looked at it, and the light fell upon
it, there came from it strange flashes of fire, showing with
what extraordinary skill the rubies and diamonds had been
adjusted so that their facets should catch and concentrate the
rays of the moon.

"Yes," he said, taking the cross again in his hand and
fondling it passionately, "it must never be possessed by any
one after me."

Aylwin

' II ,,

11:

■|i

*'i3ut it iiilglit be stolen, father — stolen from your coffm."
"That would indeed be a disaster," he said with a shudder.
Then a look of deadly vengeance overspread his face and
brought out all its Romany characteristics as he said: "But
with it there will be buried a curse written in Hebrew and
English — a curse upo the despoiler, which will frighten off
any thief who is in his senses."

And he showed me a large parchment scroll, folded ex-
actly like a title deed, with the following curse and two
verses from the 109th Psalm written upon it in Hebrew and
English. The English version was carefully printed by him-
self in large letters: —

"He who shall violate this lomb, — he who shall steal this amulet,
hallowed as a love-token between me and my dead wife, — he who
shall dare to lay a sacrilegious hand upon this cross, stands cursed
by God, cursed by love, and cursed by me, Philip Aylwin, lying
here. 'Let there be no man to pity him, nor to have compassion
upon his fatherless children. . . . Let his children be vaga-
bonds, and beg their bread: let them seek it also out of desolate
places.' — Psalm cix. So saith the Lord. Amen."

"I have printed the English version in large letters," he
said, "so that any would-be despoiler must see it and read
it at once by the dimmest lantern light."

"But, father," I said, "is it possible that you, an educated
man, really believe in the ef^cacy of a curse?"

"If the curse comes straight from the heart's core of a
man, as this curse comes from mine, Hal, how can it fail to
operate by the mere force of will? The curse of a man who
loved as I love upon the wretch who should violate a love-
token so sacred as this — why, the disembodied spirits of all
who have loved and suffered would combine to execute it!"

"Spirits!" I said. "Really, father, in times like these to
talk of spirits!"

"Ah, Henry!" he replied, "I was like you once. I could
once be content with Materialism — I could find it supporta-
ble once ; but, should you ever come to love as I have loved
(and, for your own liappiness, child, I hope you never may),
you will find that Materialism is intolerable, is hell itself, to
the heart that has known a passion like mine. You will find
that it is madness, Hal, madness, to believe in the word
'never'! you will find that you dare not leave untried any
creed, howsoever wild, that offers the heart a ray of hope.
Every object she cherished has become spiritualized, sub-

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 47

liiiialcd, ii:is become alive — alive as lliis amulet is alive. See,
ilic lights arc no natural lights." And again he held it up.

**If on my death-bed," he continued, "I thought that this
beloved cross and these sacred relics would ever get into
other hands — would ever touch other flesh — than mine, I
should die a maniac, Hal, and my spirit would never be re-
leased from the chains of earth."

It was the superstitious tone of his talk that irritated and
hardened me. He saw it, and a piteous expression over-
spread his features.

''Don't desert your poor father," he said. "What I want
is the word of an Ayhvin that those beloved relics shall be
buried with me. If I had that, I should be content to live,
and content to die. Oh, Hal!"

He threw such an imploring gaze into my face as he said
"Oh, Hall" that, reluctant as I was to be mixed up with
superstition, I promised to execute his wishes; I promised
also to keep the secret from all the world during his life, and
after his death to share it with those two only from whom,
for family reasons, it could not be kept — my tmcle Aylwin of
Alvanley and my mother. He then put away the amulet,
and his face resumed the look of placid content it usually
wore. He was feeling the facets of the mysterious "Moon-
light Cross"!

The most marvellous thing is this, however : his old rela-
tions towards me were at once resumed. He never alluded
to the subject of his first wife again, and I soon found it diffi-
cult to believe that the conversation just recorded ever took
place at all. Evidently his monomania only rose up to a pas-
sionate expression when fanned into sudden flame by talking
about the cross. It was as though the shock of his first
wife's death had severed his consciousness and his life in
twain.

II.

Naturally this visit to Switzerland cemented our intimacy,
and it was on our return home that he suggested my accom-
panying him on one of his "rubbing expeditions."

"Henry," he said, "your mother has of late frequently dis-
cussed with me the question of your future calling in life.

Aylwin

' II

Slic suggests a Parliamentary career. I confess that I find
questions about careers exceedingly disturbing."

"There is only one profession 1 should like, father," I said,
"and that is a painter's." In fact, the passion for painting
had come on me very strongly of late. My dreams had from
the first been of wandering with Winnie in a paradise of col-
our, and these dreams had of late been more frequent: the
paradise of colour had been growing richer and rarer.

He shook his head gravely and said, "No, my dear; your
mother would never allow it."

"Why not?" I said; "is painting low too?"

"Cyril Aylwin is low, at least so your mother and aunt say,
especially your aunt. I have not perceived it myself, but
then your mother's perceptive faculties are extraordinary —
quite extraordinary."

"Did the lowness come from his being a painter, father?"
I asked.

"Really, child, you are puzzling me. But I have observed
you now for some weeks, and I quite believe that you would
make one of the best rubbers who ever held a ball. I am
going to Salisbury next week, and you shall then make your
debut:'

This was in the midst of a very severe winter we had some
years ago, when all Europe was under a coating of ice.

"But, father," I said, "sha'n't we find it rather cold?"

"Well," said my father, with a bland smile, "I will not pre-
tend that Salisbury Cathedral is particularly warm in this
weather, bur in wdnter I always rub in knee-caps and mit-
tens. I will tell Hodder to knit you a full set at once."

"But, father," I said, "Tom Wynne tells me that rubbing
is the most painful of all occupations. He even goes so far
sometimes as to say that it was the exhaustion of rubbing for
you which turned him to drink."

"Nothing of the kind," said my father. "All that Tom
needed to make him a good rubber was enthusiasm. I am
strongly of opinion that without enthusiasm rubbing is of all
occupations the most irksome, except perhaps for the quad-
rumana (who seem more adapted for this exercise), the most
painful for the spine, the most cramping for the thighs, the
most numbing for the fingers. It is a profession, Henry,
demanding above every other, enthusiasm in the operator.
Now Tom's enthusiasm for rubbing as an art was from the
first exceedingly feeble."

■^i^i':

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 49

I was on the eve of revolting', but I remembered what
there was lacerating his poor breast, and consented. And
when I heard hints of our "working the Welsh churches"
my sudden enthusiasm for the rubber's art astonished even
my father.

"My dear," he said to my mother at dinner one day,
"what do you think ? Henry has developed quite a sudden
passion for rubbing."

I saw an expression of perplexity and mystification over-
spread my mother's sagacious face.

"And in the spring," continued my father, "we are going
into Wales to rub."

"Into Wales, are you ?" said my mother, in a tone of that
soft voice whose meaning I knew so well.

My thoughts were continually upon Winifred, now that I
was alone in the familiar spots. I had never seen her nor
heard from her since we parted as children. She had only
known me as a cripple. What would she think of me now?
Did she ever think of me? She had not answered my child-
ish letter, and this had caused me much sorrow and per-
plexity.

We did not go into Wales after all. But the result of this
conversation took a shape that amazed me. I was sent to
stay with my Aunt Prue in London in order that I might
attend one of the Schools of Art. Yes, my mother thought
it was better for me even to run ^he risk of becoming bohe-
mianised like Cyril Aylwin, than to brood over Winnie or
the scenes that were associated with our happy childhood.

In London I was an absolute stranger. We had no town
house. On the few occasions when the family had gone to
London, it was to stay in Belgrave Square with my Aunt
Prue, who was an unmarried sister of my mother's.

"Since the death of the Prince Consort, to go no further
back," she used to say, "a dreadful change has come over
the tone of society; the love of bohemianism, the desire to
take up any kind of people, if they are amusing, and still
more if they are rich, is levelling everything. However,
Ini nobody now; / say nothing."

What wonder that from my very cliildhood my aunt took
a prejudice against me, and predicted for me a career "as
deplorable as Cyril Aylwin's," and sympathised with my
mother in her terror of the Gypsy strain in my father's
branch of the family?

5^«ff

50 Aylwin

Her tastes and instincts being intensely arisiocratic, she
suffered a martyrdom from her ever present consciousness of
this disgrace. She had seen very much more of what is
called Society than my mother had ever an opportunity of
seeing. It was not, however, aristocracy, but Royalty that
won the true worship of her soul.

Although she was immeasurably inferior to my mother in
everything, her influence over her was great, and it was
always for ill. I believe that even my mother's prejudice
against Tom Wynne was largely owing to my aunt, who dis-
liked my relations towards Wynne simply because he did not
represent one of the great Wynne families. But the re-
markable thing was that, although my mother thus yielded
to my aunt's influence, she in her heart despised her sister's
ignorance and her narrowness of mind. She often took a
humorous pleasure in seeing my aunt's aristocratic proclivi-
ties bafiled by some vexing contretemps or by some slight
passed upon her by people of superior rank, especially by
those in the Royal circle.

There have been so many descriptions of art schools, from
the famous "Gandish's" down to the very moment at which
I write, that I do not intend to describe mine.

It would be very far from my taste to use a narrative like
this, a narrative made sacred by the spiritual love it records,
as a means of advertising efiforts of such modest pretensions
as mine when placed in comparison with the work of the
illustrious painters my friendship with whom has been the
great honour of my life. And if I allude here to the fact of
my being a painter, it is in order that I may not be mistaken
for another Aylwin, my cousin Percy, who in some unpub-
lished poems of his which I have seen has told how a sailor
was turned into a poet by love — love of Rhona Boswell. "^n
the same way, these pages are written to tell how I was m de
a painter by love of her whom I first saw in Raxton church-
yard, her who filled my being as Beatrice filled the being of
Dante when "the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the
secretest chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently
tliat the least pulses of his body shook therewith."

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 5 1

III.

Time went by, and I returned to Raxton. Just when I had
determined that, come what would, I would go into Wales,
Wynne one day told me that Winnie was coming to live with
him at Raxton, her aunt having lately died. "The English
lady," said he, "who lived with them so long and eddicatcd
Winifred, has gone to live at Carnarvon to get the sea air."

This news was at once a joy and a perplexity.

Wynne, though still the handsomest and finest man in
Raxton, had sunk much lower in intemperance of late. He
now generally wound up a conversation with me by a certain
stereotyped allusion to the dryness of the weather, which I
perfectly understood to mean that he felt thirsty, and that an
offer ot iialt-a-crown for beer would not be unacceptable.
He was a proud man in everything except in reference to
beer. But he seemed to think there was no degradation in
asking for money to get drunk with, though to have asked
for it to buy bread would, I suppose, have wounded his
pride. I did not then see so clearly as I now do the wrong
of giving him those half-crowns. His annuity he had long
since sold.

Spite of all his delinquencies, however, my father liked
him; so did my uncle Aylvvin of Alvanley. But my mother
seemed positively to hate him. It was the knowledge of this
that caused my anxiety about Winifred's return. I felt that
complications must arise.

At this time I used to go to Dullingham every day. The
clergyman there was preparing me for college.

On the Sunday following the day when I got such mo-
mentous news from Wynne, I was met suddenly, as my
mother and I were leaving the church after the service, by
the gaze of a pair of blue eyes that arrested my steps as by
magic, and caused the church and the churchgoers to vanish
from my sight.

The picture of Winifred that had dwelt in my mind so
long was that of a ])cautiful child. The radiant vision of the
girl before me came on me by surprise and dazzled me. Tall
and slim she was now, but the complexion had not altered
at all ; the eyes seemed young and childlike as ever.

Aylwin

When our eyes met she blushed, then turned pale, and
took hold of the top of a seat near which she was standing.
She came along the aisle close to us gliding and slipping
through the crowd, cum passed out of the porch. My mother
had seen my agitation, and had moved on in a state of
haughty indignation. I had no room, however, at that mo-
ment for considerations of any person but one. I hurried
out of the church, and, following Winifred, grasped her
gloved hand.

"Winifred, you are come," I paid; "I have been longing to
see you."

She again turned pale and then blushed scarlet. Next she
looked down me as if she had expected to see something
which she did not see, and when her eyes were upraised
again something in them gave me a strange fancy that she
was disappointed to miss my crutches.

"Why didn't you write me from Wales, Winifred? Why
didn't you answer my letter years ago?"
She hesitated, then said,
"My aunt wouldn't let me, sir."
"Wouldn't let you answer it! and why?"
Again she hesitated,
"I— I don't know, sir."

"You do know, Winifred. I see that you know, and you
shall tell me. Why didn't your aunt let you answer my letter?"
Winifred's eyes looked into mine beseechingly. Then that
light of playful humour, which I remembered so well, shot
like a sunbeam across and through them as she replied —
"My aunt said we must both forget our pretty dream."
Almost before the words were out, however, the sunbeam
fled from her eyes and was replaced by a look of terror. I
now perceived that my mother, in passing to the carriage,
had lingered on the gravel-path close to us, and had, of
course overheard the dialogue. She passed on with a look
of hate. I thought it wise to bid Winifred good-bye and
join my mother.

As I stepped into the carriage I turned round and saw
that Winifred was again looking wistfully at some particular
part of me — looking with exactly that simple, frank, "ob-
jective" expression with which I was familiar.

"I knew it was the crutches she missed," I said to myself
as I sat down by my mother's side; "she'll have to love :ne
now because I am not lame."

! ' i

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 53

I also knew something else: I must prepare for a conflict
with my mother. My father, at this time in Switzerland, had
written to say that he had been suffering acutely from an
attack of what he called "spasms." He had "been much sub-
ject to them of late, but no one considered them to be really
dangerous."

During luncheon I felt that my mother's eyes were on me.
After it was over she went to her room to write in answer to
my father's letter, and then later on she returned to me.

"Henry," she said, "my overhearing the dialogue in the
churchyard between you and Wynne's daughter was, I need
not say, quite accidental, but it is perhaps fortunate that I
did overhear it."

"Why fortunate, mother? You simply heard her say that
her aunt in Wales had forbidden her to answer a childish let-
ter of mine written many years ago."

"In telling you which, the girl, I must say, proclaimed her
aunt to be an exceedingly sensible and well conducted
woman," said my mother.

"On that point, mother," I said, "you must allow me to
hold a different opinion. I, for my part, should have said
that Winifred's story proclaimed her aunt to be a worthy
member of a flunkey society like this of ours — a society
whose structure, political and moral and religious, is based
on an adamantine rock of paltry snobbery."

It was impossible to restrain my indignation.

"I am aware, Henry," replied my mother calmly, "that it
is one of the fashions of the hour for young men of family to
adopt the language of Radical newspapers. In a country
like this the affectation does no great harm, I grant, and mv
only serious objection to it is that it implies in young men of
one's own class a lack of originality which is a little hu-
miliating. I am aware that your cousin, Percy Aylwin, of
Rington Manor, used to talk in the same strain as this, and
ended by joining the Gypsies. But I came to warn you,
Henry, I came to urge you not to injure this poor girl's
reputation by such scenes as that I witnessed this morning."

I remained silent. The method of my mother's attack had
taken me by surprise. Her sagacity was so mucli greater
than mine, her power of fence was so much greater, her
stroke was so much deadlier, that in all our encounters T
)iad been conquered.

"It is for the girl's own sake that I speak to you," con-

Aylwin

tinucd my mother. "She was deeply embarrassed at your
method of address, and well she might be, seeing that it will
be, for a long time to come, the subject of discussion in all
the beer-houses which her father frequents."

"You speak as though she were answerable for her
father's faults," I said, with heat.

"No," said my mother; "but your father is the owner of
Raxton Hall, which to her and her class is a kind of Palace
of the Caesars. You belong to a family famous all along the
coast; you are well known to be the probable heir of one of
the largest landowners in England; you may be something
more important still; while she, poor girl, vviiat is she that
you should rush up to her before all the churchgoers of the
parish and address her as Winifred? The daughter of a pen-
niless drunken reprobate. Every attention you pay hir is
but a slur upon her good name."

"There is not a lady in the county worthy to unlace her
shoes," I cried, unguardedly. Then I could have bitten ofif
my tongue for saying so.

"That may be," said my mother, with the quiet irony
peculiar to her; "but so monstrous are the customs of Eng-
land, Henry, so barbaric is this society you despise, that she,
whose shoes no lady in the county is worthy to unlace, is in
an anomalous position. Should she once again be seen
talking familiarly with you, her character will have fled, and
fled for ever. It is for you to choose whether you are set
upon ruining her reputation."

I felt that what she said was true. I felt also that Winifred
herself had recognized the net of conventions that kept us
apart in spite of that close and tender intimacy which had
been the one great factor of our Hves. In a certain sense I
was far more of a child of Nature than Winifred herself, in-
asmuch as, owing to my remarkable childish experience of
isolation, I had imbibed a scepticism about the sanctity of
conventions such as is foreign to the nature of woman, be
she ever so unsophisticated, as Winifred's shyness towards
me had testified.

As a child I had been neglected for the firstborn. I had
enjoyed through this neglect an absolute freedom with re-
gard to associating with fisher-boys and all the shoeless, hat-
less "sea-pups" of the sands, and now, when the time had
come to civilise mc, my mother had found it was too late. I
was bohemian to the core. My childish intercourse with

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 55

Winifred had been one of absolute equality, and I could not
now divest myself of this relation. These were my thoughts
as I listened to my mother's words.

My great fear now, however, was lest I should say some-
thing to compromise myself, and so make I'latters worse.
Before another word upon the subject shoula pass between
my mother and me I nuist sec Winifred — and then I had
something to say to her which no power on earth should
prevent me from saying. So I merely told my mother that
there was much truth in what she had said, and proceeded to
ask particulars about my father's recent illness. After giv-
ing me these particulars she left the room, perplexed, I
thought, as to what had been the result of her mission.

s ''5'

i
1

(.'

IV.

I REMAINED alouc for somc time. Then I told the servants
that I was going to walk along the cliffs to Dullingham
Church, where there was an evening sei^vice, and left the
house. I hastened towards the cliffs, and descended to the
sands, in the hope that Winifred might be roaming about
there, but I walked all the way to Dullingham without get-
ting a glimpse of her. The church service did not interest
me that evening. I heard nothing and saw nothing. When
the service was over I returned along the sands, sauntering
and lingering in the hope that, late as it was now growing,
the balmy evening might have enticed her out.

The evening grew to night, and still I lingered. The
moon was nearly at the full, and exceedingly bright. The
tide was down. The scene was magical; I could not leave it.
I said to myself, *T will go and stand on the very spot where
Winifred stood when she lisped 'certumly' to the proposal of
her little lover."

It was not, after all, till Ihis evening that I really knew
how entirely she was a portion of my life.

I went and stood by the black boiider where I had re-
ceived the little child's prompt reply. There was not a grain
left, I knew, of that same sand which had been hallowed by
the little feet of Winifred, but it served my mood just as well
as though every grain had felt the beloved pressure. For
that the very sands had loved the child, I half believed.

* 1

Aylwin

I said to myself, as T sat down upon the boulder, "At this
very moment she is here, she is in Raxton. In a certain little
cottage there is a certain little room." And then I longed to
leave the sands, to go and stand in front of Wynne's cottage
and dream there. I>ut that would be too foolish. *1 must
get home," I thought. "The night will pass somehow, and
in the morning I shall, as sure as fate, see her flitting about
the sands she loves, and then what I have sworn to say to
her I will say, and what I have sworn to do I will do, come
what will."

Then came the puzzling question, how was I to greet her
when we met? Was I to run up and kiss her, and hear her
say, "Oh, I'm so pleased!" as she would sometimes say when
I kissed her of yore? No; her deportment in the morning
forbade that. Or was I to raise my hat and walk up to her
saying, "How do you do. Miss Wynne? I'm glad to see
you back, Miss Wynne," for she was now neither child nor
young woman, she was a "girl." Perhaps I had better rush
up to her in a bluff, hearty way, and say : "How do you do,
Miss Winifred? Delighted to see you back to Raxton."
Finally, I decided that circumstances must guide me en-
tirely, and I sat upon the boulder meditating.

After a while I saw, or thought I saw, in the far distance,
close to the waves, a moving figure among the patches of
rocks and stones (some black and some white) that break the
coiitinuity of the sand on that shore at low water.

When the figure got nearer I perceived it to be a woman,
a girl, who, every now and then, was stooping as if to pick
up something from the pools '^•f water left by the ebbing
tide imprisoned amid the enc.rcling rocks. At first I
watched the figure, wondering in a lazy and dreamy way
what girl could be out there so late.

But all at once I began to catch my breath and gasp. The
sea-smells had become laden with a kind of paradisal per-
fume, ineffably sweet, but difficult to breathe all of a sudden.
My heart too — what was amiss with that? And why did
the muscles of my body seem to melt like wax? The lonely
wanderer by the sea could be none other than Winifred.

"It is she!" I said. "There is no beach-v/oman or shore-
prowling girl who, without raising an arm to balance her
body, without a totter or a slip, could step in that way upon
stones some of which are as slippery as ice with gelatinous
weeds and slime, while others are as sharp as razors. To

The Moonlight Cross of tlie (Jnostics 57

"At this
ain little
mged to
> cottage
"I must
low, and
ig about

say to
o, come

reet her
lear her
ly when
norning
3 to her

1 to see
lild nor
ter rush
you do,
axton."
me en-

istance,
ches nf
eak the

i^oman,
o pick
ebbing
first I
ly way

>. The
al per-
udden.
ly did
lonely
:d.

shoro-

:e her

upon

tinous

•alk like th^t the

darli

thi

^ c must
an eye as sure as a bird's; the ball of the foot must be the
i^all of a certain little foot I have often had in my hand wet
with sea-water and gritty with sand. For such work a
mountaineer or a cragsman, or Winifred, is needed." Then 1
♦"ecalled her love of marine creatures, her delight in seaweed,
of which she would weave the most astonishing chaplets and
necklaces coloured like the rainbow, "seaweed boas" and
seaweed turbans, calling herself the princess of the sea (as
indeed she was), and calling me her prince. "Yes," said I,
"it is certainly she;" and when at last I espied a little dog
by her side, Tom Wynne's little dog Snap (a descendant of
the original Snap of our never-to-be-forgotten seaside ad-
ventures) — when I espied all these things I said, "Then the
hour is come."

By this time my heart had settled down to a calmer throb,
the paradisal scent had become more supportable, and I
grew master of myself again. I was going towards her,
when I stayed my steps, for she was already making her
way, entirely unconscious of my presence, towards the
boulder where I sat.

"I know what I will do^" I said ; "I will fling myself flat
on the sands behind the boulder and watch her. I will ob-
serve her without being myself observed."

I was ill H\e mood when one tries sportfully to deceive
one's self as to the depth and intensity of the emotion within.
Perhaps I would and perhaps I would not speak to her at
all that night; but if I did speak, I would say and do what
(on that day when I set out for school) I had sworn to
say and do.

So there I lay hidden by the boulder and watched her.
She made the circuit of each pool that lay across her path
towards the clift's, — made it apparently for the childish en-
joyment of balancing herself on stones and snapping ner
fingers at the dog, who looked on with philosophic indiffer-
ence at such a frivolous waste of force. Yes, though a tall
girl of seventeen, she was the same incomparable child who
had coloured my life and stirred the entire air of my imagi-
nation with the breezes of a new heaven. The voice of the
tumbling sea in the distance, the caresses of the tender
breeze, the wistful gaze of the great moon overhead, were
companionship enough for her — for her whose loveliness
would have enchanted a world. She had no idea that there

\ I

i 1 S

•:iM,«i'»

was at lliis luuiiiciit stepping;' iouikI those black stones the
lovcHest woman then upon tlie earth. Jf she had had that
idea she would still have been the star of all womanhood,
but she would not have been Winifred. A charm superior
to all other women's charm she still would have had ; but
she would not have been Winifred.

When she left the rocks and came upon the clear sand,
she stopped and looked at her sweet shadow in the moon-
light. Then, with the self-pleasing playfulness of a kitten,
she stood and put herself into all kinds of postures to see
what varying silhuuettes they would make on the hard and
polished sand (that shone with a soft lustre like satin); now
throwing up one arm, now another, and at last making a
pirouette, twirling her shawl round, trying to keep it in a
horizontal position by the rapidity of her movements.

The interest of the philosophic Snap was aroused at last.
He be^.an wheeling and barking round her, tearing up the
sand as he went like a little whirlwind. This induced Wini-
fred to redouble her gymnastic exertions. She twirled
round with the velocity of an engine wheel. At last, find-
ing the enjoyment it gave to Snap, she changed the per-
formance by taking off her hat, liinging it high in the air,
catching it, flinging it up again and again, while the moving
shadow it made was hunted along the sand by Snap with a
volley of deafening barks. By this time she had got close
to me, but she was too busy to sco me. Then she began to
dance- the very sime dance with which she used to enter-
tain me in those happy days. I advanced from my stone,
dodging and slipping behind her, unobserved even by Snap,
so intent were these two friends upon this entertainment,
got up, one wo Li Id think, for whatsoever sylphs or gnomes
or water spiites might be looking on.

How could I address in the language of passion, which
alone would have expressed my true feelings, a dancing
fairy such as this?

"Bravo!" I said, as she stopped, panting and breathless.
"Why, Winifred, you dance better than everl"

She leaped away in alarm and confusion; while Snap, on
the contiary, welcomed me with much joy.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," she said; not looking at
me "ith the blunt frankness of childhood, as the little
woman of the old days used to do, but dropping her eyes.
"I didn't see you."

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 59

"But / saw yov, Winifred; 1 have been watching you for
the last quarter of an hour."

"Oh, you never have!" said she, in distress; "what coukl
yon have thought? I was only trying to cheer up poor
Snap, who is out of sorts. What a mad romp you must
have thought me, sir!"

"Why, what's the matter with Snap?"

"I don't know. Poor Snap" (stooping down to fondle
him, and at the same time to hide her face from me, for she
was talking against time to conceal her great confusion and
agitation at seeing me. That was perceptible enough).

Then she remembered she was hatless.

"Oh, dear, wliere's my hat?" said she, looking round.

I had picked up the hat before accosting her, and it was
now dangling behind me. I, too, began talking against
time, for the beating of my jieart began again at the thought
of what I was going to say and do.

"Hat!" I said; "do you wear hats, Winifred? I should
as soon have thought of hearing the Queen of the Tylwyth
Teg ask for her hat as you, after such goings-on as those
I have just been w^itnessing. You see I have not forgotten
the W'elsh you taught me."

"Oh, but my hat — where is it?" cried she, vexed and
sorely ashamed. So different from the unblenching child
who loved to stand hatless and feel the rain-drops on her
bare head!

"Well, Winifred, I've found a hat on the sand," I said;
"here it is."

"Thank you, sir," said she, and stretched out her hand
for it.

"No," said I, "I don't for one moment believe in its be-
longing to you, any more than it belongs to the Queen of
the 'Fair People.' But if you'll let me put it on your head
I'll give you the hat I've found," and with a rapid movement
I advanced and put it on her head. I had meant to seize
that moment for saying what I had to say, but was obliged to
vrait.

An expression of such genuine distress overspread her
face, that I regretted having taken the liberty with her. Her
bearing altogether was puz7:ling me. She seemed instinct-
ively to feel as I felt, that raillery was the only possible atti-
tude to take up in a situation so extremely romantic — a
meeting on the sands at night between me and her who was

if;

1^ '^

■; 1;

Aylwin

!.)■

neither child nor woman — and yet she seemed distressed
at the raillery.

Embarrassment was rapidly coming between us.

There was a brief silence, during which Winifred seemed
trying to move away from me.

"Did you — did you see me from the clififs, sir, and come
down?" said Winifred.

"Winifred," said I, "the polite thing to say would be
*Yes'; but you know 'Fighting Hal' never was remarkable
for politeness, so 1 will say frankly that I did not come down
from the cliffs on seeing you. But when I did see you, I
wasn't very likely to return without speaking to you."

"I am locked out," said Winifred, in explanation of her
moonlight ramble. "My father went off to DuUingham with
the key in his pockc^ -v^hile I and Snap were in the garden,
so we have to wait ti his return. Good night, sir," and she
gave me her hand. I seemed to feel the fingers round my
heart, and knew that I was turning very pale. "The same
little sunburnt fingers," I said, as I retained them in mine —
"just the same, Winifred! But it's not 'good night' yet. No,
no, it's not good night yet; and, Winifred, if you dare to
call me 'sir' again, I declare I'll kiss you where you stand. I
will, Winifred. I'll put my arms right around that slender
waist and kiss you under that moon, as sure as you stand on
these sands."

"Then I will not call you 'sir,' " said Winifred, laughingly.
"Certainly I will not call you 'sir,' ii that is to be the
penalty."

"Winifred," said I, "the last time that I remember to have
heard you say 'certainly' was on this very spot. You then
pronounced it 'certumly,' and that was when I asked you
if I might be your lover. You said 'certumly' on that occa-
sion without the least hesitation."

Winifred, as I could sef, even by the moonlight, was
blushing. "Ah, those childish days!" she said. "How de-
lightful they were, sir!"

"'Sir' again!" said I. "Now, Winifred, I am going to
execute my threat — I am indeed."

She put up her hands before her face and said:

"Oh, don't! please don't."

The action no doubt might seem coquettish, but the tone
of her voice was so genuine, so serious — so agitated even —
that I paused; I paused in bewilderment and perplexity

stressed

seemed

id come

Duld be
larkable
le down
t you, I
1."

1 of her
im with
garden,
and she
und my
le same
mine —
et. No,
dare to
itand. I
slender
tand on

lingly.
DC the

o have
)U then
ed you
occa-

it, was
ow de-

)ing to

le tone
ven —
Dlexity

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 6 1

concerning us both. I observed that her fingers shook as
she held them before her face. That she should be agitated
at seeing me after so long a separation did not surprise me,
I being deeply agitated myself. It was the nature of her
emotion that puzzled me, until suddenly I remembered my
mother's words. ■■■j ^4

I perceived then that, child of Nature as she slill was,
some one had given her a careful training which had trans-
figured my little Welsh rustic into a lady. She had not failed
to apprehend the anomaly of her present position — on the
moonlit sands with me. Though I could not break free from
the old equal relations between us, Winifred had been able to
do so. t 1 1

"To her," I thought with shame, "my oflfering to kiss her
at such a place and time must have seemed an insult. The
very fact of my attempting to do so must have seemed to
indicate an offensive consciousness of the difference of our
social positions. It must have seemed to show that I recog-
nized a distinction between the drunken organist's daughter
and a lady."

I saw now, indeed, that she felt this keenly; and I knew
that it was nothing but the sweetness of her nature, coupled
with the fond recollection of the old happy days, that re-
strained that high spirit of hers, and prevented her from giv-
ing expression to her indignation and disgust.

All this w^as shown by the appealing look on her sweet,
fond face, and I was touched to the heart.

"Winifred — Miss Wj'nne," I said, "I beg your pardon
most sincerely. The shadow-dance has been mainly an-
swerable for my folly. You did look so exactly the little
Winifred, my he.a-t's sister, that I felt it impossible to
treat you otherwise than a that dear child-friend of years

ago-

A look of deiip-ht broke over her face.

"I felt sure it v\ s so," she said. "But it is a relief that you
have said it." An ' the tears came to her eyes.

"Thank you, W lifred, for having pardoned me. I feel
that you would have forgiven no one else as you have for-
given me. I feel that you would not have forgiven any one
else than your old child-companion, whom on a memorable
occasion you threatened to hit, and then had not the heart to
do so."

"I don't think I could hit you" said she, in a meditative

■I m^

It,

■ft-

!;*

i'l (,

Aylwin

,^[ !

^ m^

I )mi

'myi

tone of perfect unconsciousness as lo the bewitching import
of her speech.

"Don't you think you could?" I said, drawing nearer, but
governing my passion.

"No," said she, looking now for the first time with those
wide-open confiding eyes, which, as a child, were the chief
characteristic of her face, "I don't think I could hit you,
whatever you did."

"Couldn't you, Winifred?" I said, coming still nearer, in
order to drink to the full the wonder of her beauty, the thrill
at my heart bringing, as I felt, a pallor to my cheek. "Don't
you think you could hit your old playfellow, Winifred?"

"No," she said, still gazing in the same dreamy, reminis-
cent way straight into my eyes as of yore. "As a child you
were so delightful. And then you were so kind to me!"

At that word "kind" from her to me I could restrain myself
no longer; I shouted with a wild laughter of uncontrollable
passion as I gazed at her through tears of love and admira-
tion and deep gratitude — gazed till I was blind. My throat
throbbed till it ached: I could get out no more words; I
could only gaze. At my shout Winifred stood bewildered
and confused. She did not understand a mood like that.
Having got myself under control, I said:

"Winifred, it is not my doing; it is Fate's doing that we
meet here on this night, and that I am driven to say here
what I had as a schoolboy sworn should be said whenever
we should meet again."

"I think," said Winifred, pulling herself up with the dig-
nity of a queen, "that if you have anything important to say
to me it had better be at a more seasonable time than at
this hour of night, and at a more seasonable place than on
these sands."

"No, Winifred," said I, "the time is nozv, and the place is
here — here on this very spot where once on a time, you
said 'certumly' when a little lover asked your hand. It is
now and here, Winifred, that I will say what I have to say."

"And what is that, sir?" said Winifred, much perplexed
and disturbed.

"I have to say, Winifred, that the man does not live and
never has lived," said I, with suppressed vehemence, "who
loved a woman as I love you."

"Oh, sir! oh, Henry!" returned Winifred, trembling, then
standing still and whiter than the moon.

'■

I'he Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 63

"And the reason why no man has ever loved a woman
as I love you, Winifred, is because your match, or anything
like your match, has never trod the earth before."

"Oh, Henry, my dear Henry! you imist not say such
things to me, your poor Winifred."

"But that isn't all that 1 swore I'd say to you, Winifred."

"Don't say any more — not to-night, not to-night."

"What I swore I would ask you, Winifred, is this: will you
be Henry's wife?"

She gave one hysterical sob, and swayed till she nearly
fell on the sand, and said, while her face shone like a
pearl:

"Henry's wife!"

She recovered herself and stood and looked at me; her
lips moved, but I waited in vain — waited in a fever of ex-
pectation — for her answer. None came. I gazed into her
eyes, but they now seemed filled with visions — visions of the
great race to which she belonged — visions in which her Eng-
lish lover had no place. Suddenly, and for the first time I
felt that she who had inspired me with this all-conquering
passion, though the penniless child of a drunken organist,
was the daughter of Snowdon — a representative of the Cym-
ric race that was once so mighty, and is still more romantic in
its associations than all others. Already in the little talk I
had had with her I began to guess what I realised before the
evening was over, that, owing to the influence of the Eng-
lish lady, Miss Dalrymple, who had lodged at the cottage
with her, she was more than my own equal in culture, and
could have held her own with almost any girl of her own age
in England. It was only in her subjection to Cymric super-
stitions that she was benighted.

"Winnie," I murmured, "what have you to say?"

After a while her eyes seemed to clear of the visions, and
she said:

"What changes have come upon us both, Henry, since
that childish betrothal on the sands!"

"Happy changes for one of the child-lovers," I said —
"happy changes for the one who was then a lonely cripple
shut out from all sympathy save that which the other child-
lover could give."

"And yet you then seemed happy, Henry — happy with
Winnie to help you up the gangways. And how happy
Winnie was! But now the child-lover is a cripple no longer:

i H t' ' i

. na ?

1 1

■ ">

h -i'^'P'

Nil

Aylwin

he is very, very strung — he is so strong that he could carry
Winnie up tlic gangways in his arms, I think,"

The thrill of natural pride which such recognition of my
physical powers would otherwise have given me was quelled
by a something in the tone in which she spoke.

"And he is powerful in every way," she went on, as if
talking to herself. "He is a great rich Englishman to whom
(as auntie was never tired of saying) that childish betrothal
must needs seem a dream — a quaint and pretty dream."

"And so your aunt said that, Winnie. How far from the
truth she was you see to-night."

"Yes, she thought you would forget all about me; and yet
she could not have felt quite confident about it, for she made
me promise that if you should not forget me — if you should
ever ask me what you have just asked — she made me
promise "

"What, Winnie? what? She did not make you promise
that you would refuse me?"

"That is what she asked me to promise."

"But you did not."

"I did not."

"No, no! you did not, Winnie. My darling refused to
make any such cruel, monstrous promise as that."

"But I promised her that I would in such an event
wait a year — at least a year — before betrothing myself to
you."

"Shame! shame! What made her do this cruel thing? A
year! wait for a year!"

"She brought forward many reasons, Henry, but upon
two of them she was constantly dwelling."

"And what were these?"

"Well, the news of the death of your brother Frank of
course reached us in Shire-Carnarvon, and how well I re-
member hearing my aunt say, 'Henry Aylwin will be one of
the wealthiest landowners in England.' And I remember
how my heart sank at her words, for I was always thinking
of the dear little lame boy with the language of suffering in
his eyes and the deep music of sorrow in his voice."

"Your heart sank, Winnie, and why?"

"I felt as if a breath of icy air had blown between us,
dividing us forever. And then my aunt began to talk about
you and your future."

After some trouble I persuaded Winnie to tell me what

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 65

was the homily that this aunt of hers preached d propos of
Frank's death. And as she talked I could not help observ-
ing what, as a child, I had only observed in a dim, semi-con-
scious way — a strange kind of double personality in Winnie.
At one moment she seemed to me to be nothing but the
dancing fairy of the sands, objective and unconscious as a
young animal playing to itself, at another she seemed the
mouthpiece of the narrow world-wisdom of this Welsh aunt.
No sooner had she spoken of herself as a friendless, home-
less girl, than her brow began to shine with the pride of the
Cymry.

"My aunt," said she, "used to tell me that until disaster
came upon my uncle, and they were reduced to living upon
a very narrow income, he and she never really knew what
love was — they never really knew how rich their hearts were
in the capacity of loving."

"Ah, I thought so," i said bitterly. "I thought the text
was,

" 'Love in a hut, with water and a crust.* "

"No," said Winifred firmly, "that was not the text. She
believed that the wolf must not be very close to the door
behind which love is nestling."

"Then what did she believe? In the name of common
sense, Winnie, what did she believe?"

"She believed," said Winnie, her checks flushing and her
eyes brightening as she went on, "that of all the schemes
devised by man's evil genius to spoil his nature, to make him
self-indulgent, and luxurious, and tyrannical, and incapable
of understanding what the word 'love' means, the scheme
of showering great wealth upon him is the most perfect."

"Ah, yes, yes; the old nonsense. Easier for a camel to
pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter
the kingdom of love. And in what way did she enlarge upon
this most charitable theme?"

"She told me dreadful things about the demoralising
power of riches in our time."

"Dreadful things! What were they, Winnie?"

"She told me how insatiable is the greed for pleasure at
this time. She told nic that the passion of vanity — 'the
greatest of all the human passions/ as she used to say — has
taken the form of money-worship in our time, sapping all
the noblest instincts of men and women, and in rich people

f J<

!li

-i

'I '

I.i

Aylwin

poisoning even parental affection, making the mother thirst
for the pleasures which in old days she would only have tried
to win for her child. She told me stories — dreadful stories —
about children with expectations of great wealth who
watched the poor grey hairs of those who gave them birth,
and counted the years and months and days that kept them
from the gold which modern society finds to be more pre-
cious than honour, family, heroism, genius, and al! that was
held precious in less materialised times. She fold me a
thousand other things of this kind, and when I grew older
she put into my hand what was written on the subject."

"Good God! Has the narrow-minded tomfoolery got a
literature?"

Winnie went on with her eloquent account of her aunt's
doctrines, and to my surprise I found that there actually was
a literature on the subject

Winnie's bright eyes had actually pored over old and long
Chartist tracts translated into Welsh, and books on the
Christian Socialism of Charles Kingsley, and pamphlets on
more recent kinds of Socialism.

As she went on I could not help murmuring now and
then, "What surroundings for my Winnie!"

"And the result of all this was, Winnie, that your aunt
asked you to promise not to marry a man demoralised by
privileges and made contemptible by wealth."

"That is what she wanted me to promise; but as I have
said, I did not. But I did promise to wait for a year and see
what effect wealth would have upon you."

"Did your aunt not tell you also that the man who marries
you can never be unmanned by wealth, because he will
know that everything he can give is as dross when set
against Winnie's love and Winnie's beauty? Did she not
also tell you that?"

"Love and beauty!" said Winnie. "Even if a woman's
beauty did not depend for existence upon the eyes that
look upon it, I should want to give more to my hero than
love and beauty. I should want to give him help in the bat-
tle of life, Henry. I should want to buckle on his armour,
and sharpen ihe point of his lance, and whet the edge of
his sword; a rich man's armour is bank-notes, and Winnie
knows nothing of such paper. His spear, I am told, is a
bullion bar, and Winnie's fingers scarcely know the touch
of gold."

^ Hi

and

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 67

"Then you agree, Winnie, with these strange views of
your aunt?"

"I do partly agree with them now. Ever since I saw you
to-day in the churchyard I have partly agreed with them."

"And why?"

"Because already prosperity or bodily vigour or some-
thing has changed your eyes and changed the tone of your
voice."

"You mean that my eyes are no longer so full of trouble;
and as to my voice — how should my voice not change, see-
ing that it was the voice of a child when you last listened
to it?"^

"It is impossible for me even now, after I have thought
about it so much, to put into words that expression in your
eyes which won me as a child. All I knew at the time was
that it fascinated me. And as I now recall it, all I know is
that your gaze then seemed full of something which I can
give a name to now, though I did not understand it then —
the pathos and tenderness and yearning, which come, as I
have been told, from suffering, and that your voice seemed
to have the same message. That expression and that tone
are gone — they will, of course, never return to you now.
Your life is, and will be, too prosperous for that. But still
I hope and believe that in a year's time prosperity will not
have worked in you any of the mischief that my aunt feared.
For you have a noble nature, Henry, and to spoil you will
not be easy. You will never be the dear little Henry I loved,
but you will still be nobler and greater than other men, I
think."

"Do you really mean that my lameness was a positive at-
traction to you? Do you really mean that the very change
in me which I thought would strengthen the bond between
us — my restoration to health — weakens it? That is impos-
sible, Winnie."

She remained silent for a time, as though lost in thought,
and then said : "I do not believe that any woman can under-
stand the movements of her own heart where love is con-
cerned. My aunt used to say I was a strange girl, and I am
afraid I am strange and perverse. She used to say that in
my affections I was like no other creature in the world."

"How should Winifred be like any other creature in the
world?" I said. "She would not be Winifred if she were.
But what did your aunt mean?"

l\ i

i i ■' «

li'iri

ii; t

1^ .'I

. Jll

Aylwin

i ' ^il

H--'

"When I was quite a little child she noticed that I was
neglecting a favourite mavis which I used to delight to listen
to as he warbled from his wicker cage. She watched me,
and found that my attention was all given to a wounded bird
that I had picked up on the Capel Curig rual. 'Winnie/
she said, 'nothing can ever win your love until it has first
won your pity. A bird with a broken wing would be always
more to you than a sound one!' "

"Your aunt was right," I said, "as no one should know
better than I. For was it not the new kind of pity shining
in those eyes of yours that revealed to me a new heaven
in my loneliness? And when my brother Frank on that day
in the wood stood over us in all the pride of his boyish
strength, do I not remember the words you spoke?"

"VVhat were they? I have quite forgotten them."

"You said, 'I don't think I could love any one very much
who was not lame.' "

"Ah! did I really say that? It was quite true, Henry. I
could admire your brother very much for being so hand-
some and strong and active, but he was too independent of
love to win love from me. That child-love was the great
educating experience of my life. It uight me the bliss of
loving the atilicted — I mean the bhss of loving those to
whom love comes as the very breath of heaven."

"Your aunt spoke the truth, indeed, when she said you
were a strange girl. But is it really possible that on account
of the blessings God has given me, health and wealth and
strength — is it really possible that on account of those very
blessings which most women find attractive in a man your
heart is turned from me? A strange girl, indeed!" I mur-
mured, lost in wonder at this new phase of the mystery of
a woman's heart. "Who was the fool," I said to myself,
"who said most women have no characters at all?"

For this conversation with Winnie first opened my eyes
to the fact that, excepting in the merest superficials, there is
a far greater variety in women than in men. In the deepest
movements of the heart no two women are alike. Win-
nie's eccentricity of character was a revelation indeed. Ever
since my return to bodily strength and agility I had been
saying to myself, "If \\'innie could only see me now! If
Winnie could love me in those dark days that she turned to
sunshine — when I was one of Destiny's own pariahs — if
she could love me as a forlorn cripple hobbling upon

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 69

crutches — what would be her feelings if she could see me
now?"

As these thoughts came to me vVinnie seemed to read
them in my face, for she said: "Ah, yes, mine is indeed a
strange, eccentric nature. After I was separate I from yon
my tlioughts of you were always as the brave little cripple
with the deep, yearning eyes, who could not get up the
gangways without me. I used to think about you in Wales,
and especially when I was rambling about Snow Ion, until
I seemed to feel again the pressure — delicious pre .ire — of
your hand on my shoulder for support. I shall never feel
that pressure again, Henry. You can get up the gangways
of life without me now."

"Who knows, Winifred," I said, "but that calamity may
yet put that lost light into my eyes and that lost tone into
my voice? But let the engagement stand thus," I said, smil-
ing. "As I am not pledged to your aunt to wait for a year,
let ours be a one-sided betrothal. Let Hal be betrothed to
Winnie, while Winnie is not betrothed to Hal until a year
has proved him to be invulnerable to the poisonous mis-
chief of wealth."

"That would indeed be something new in betrothals," said
Winifred with a strange smile.

"Has not everything in connection with us two been
new?" I said. "Why should there not be a new kind of be-
trothal between us? Did not the French wit sav that in
every love affair there were two parties — one who is loved,
and the other qui sc laissc aimer?"

"No, you musn't put it so, dear Henry; you musn't put it
in that way. My aunt did not object to the child-betrothal
of long ago; she did not object to the little harum-scarum
Winnie saying 'certumly'! when the little cripple proposed
to her on the boulder."

"Let us renew that betrothal and be children again," I
said.

She then told me that her kind friend Miss Dalrymple
had always advised her to seek a situation as governess in
Wales.

"I have now determined to do so," said Winifred, while
a mournful look came into her eyes which I found it easy
to understand, knowing as I did what she must already have
seen of her father's mode of life.

"And," said I, "to show you that the leprosy of wealth you

li)

:!^,

I !

70 Aylwin

dread has not destroyed me as a man, I will in a year's time
go to Wales, and we will be betrothed on Snowdon (I am
afraid we can't be married there), and we will he married
in Wales and your bridesmaids shall be your two Gypsy
friends."

' m

I WONDER what words could render that love-dream on the
dear silvered <:^nds, with the moon overhead, the dark
shadowy cliffs and the old church on one side, and the North
Sea murmuring a love-chime on the other!

Suffice it to record that Winifred, with a throb in her
throat (a throb that prevented her from pronouncing her n's
with the clarity that some might have desired), said "cer-
tumly" again to Henry's suit, — "Certumly, if in a year's
time you seek me out in the mountains, and your eyes and
voice show that prosperity has not spoiled you, but that you
are indeed my Henry." And this being settled in strict ac-
cordance with her aunt's injunctions, she never tried to dis-
guise how happy she was, but told Henry again and again
in answer to his importunate questions — told hirn with her
frank courage how she had loved him from the first in the
old churchyard as a child — loved him for what she called his
love-eyes ; told him — ah ! what did she not tell him ? I must
not go on. These things should not be written about at all
but for the demands of my story.

And how soon she forgot that the betrothal was all on one
side! I could write out every word of that talk. I remem-
ber every accent of her voice, every variation of light that
came and went in her eyes, every ripple of love-laughter,
every movement of her body, lisson:e as a greyhound's,
graceful as a bird's. For fully an hour it lasted. And re-
member, reader, tl.at it v.'as on the silvered sands, every inch
of which was associated with some reminiscence of child-
hood; it was beneath a moon smiling as fondly and brightly
as she ever smiled on the domes of Venice or between the
trees of Fiesole; it was by the margin of waves whose mur-
murs were soft and perfumed as Winifred's own breathings
when she slept; and remember that the girl was Winifred
herself, and that the boy — the happy boy — had Winifred's

her

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 71

love. Ah! but that last element of that hour's bliss is just
what the reader cannot realise, because he can only know
Winifred throup:h these poor words. That is the distressing^
side of a task like mine. The beloved woman here called
Winifred (no phantom of an idle imagination, but more real
to me and dear to mo than this soul and body I call my own)
— this Winifred can only live for you, reader, through my
feeble, faltering words; and yet I ask you to listen to the
story of such a love as mine.

"Winnie," I said, "you have often as a child sung songs
of Snowdon to mc and told me of others you used to sing.
I should love to hear one of these now, with the chime of
the North Sea for an accompaniment instead of the instru-
ment you tell me your Gypsy friend used to play. Before
we go up the gangway, do sing me a verse of one of those
songs."

After some little persuasion she yielded and sang in a soft
undertone the following verse:

"I met in a glade a lone little maid

At the foot of y Wyddfa the white;
Oh, Hssome her feet as the mountain hind,

And darker her hair than the night;
Her cheek was like the mountain rose,

But fairer far to see,
As driving along her sheep with a song,

Down from the hills came she."*

"What a beautiful world it is!" said she, in a half-whisper,
as we were about to part at the cottage-door, for I had re-
fused to leave her on the sands or even at the garden-gate.
"I should like to live forever," she whispered; "shouldn't
you, Henry?"

"Well, that all depends upon the person I lived with. For
instance, I sJiouldn't care to live for ever with Widow
Shales, the pale-faced tailoress, nor yet with her hump-
backed son, whose hump was such a constant source of
wistful wonder and solicitude to you as a child."

*"Mi gwrddais gynt a morwynig,

Wrth odreu y Wyddfa wen.
Un ysgafn ei throed fel yr ewig

A gwallt fel y nos ar ei phcii;
V.'i grudd oedd fel y rhosyii,

Un hardd a gwen ei gwav.r;
Yn canu can. a'i defaid man,

O'r Wyddfa'n d'od i lawr."

,i\

i ;.J

^■i-'

Aylwin

She gave a merry little laugh of reminiscence. Then she
said, "But you could live with tne for ever, couldn't you,
Henry?" plucking a leaf from the grape-vine on the wall and
putting it between her teeth,

"For ever and ever, Winifred."

"It fills me with wonder," said she, after a while, "the
thought of being Henry's wife. It is so delightful and yet
so fearful."

By this I knew she had not forgotten that look of hate
on my mother's face.

She put her hand on the latch and found that the door
was nov/ unlocked.

"But where is the fearful part of it, Winifred?" I said. "I
am noi. a cannibal."

"You ought to marry a great English lady, dear, and I'm
only a poor girl; you seem to forget all about that, you silly
fond boy. You forget I'm only a poor girl — just Winifred,"
she continued.

"Just Winifred,'* I said, taking her hand and preventing
her from lifting the latch.

"I've lived," said she, "in a little cottage like this with
my aunt and Miss Dalrymple and done everything."

"Everything's a big word, Winifrea. What may every-
thing include in your case?"

"Include!" said Winifred; "oh, everything, housekeeping
and "

"Housekeeping!" said I. "Racing the winds with Rhona
Boswell and other Gypsy children up and down Snowdon —
that's been your housekeeping."

"Cooking," said Winifred, maintaining her point.

"Oh, what a fib, Winifred ! These sunburnt fingers may
have picked wild fruits, but they never made a pie in their
lives."

"Never made a pic! T make beautiful pies and things;
and when we're married I'll make your pies — may I, instead
of a conceited man-cook?"

"No, Winifred. Never make a pic or do a bit o^ cooking
in my house, I charge you."

"Oh, why not?" said Winifred, a shade of disappointment
overspreading her face. "I suppose it's unladylikv; to cook,"

"Because," said I, "once let me taste someiliing made by
these tanned fingers, and how could I ever afterwards cat
anything made by a man-cook, conceited or modest? I

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 73

should say to that poor cook, 'Where is the Winifred flavour,
cook? 1 don't taste those tanned fingers here,' And then,
suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why I should have
to starve, just for the want of a little Winifred flavour in the
pie-crust. Now I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't
cook."

"Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow!" shrieked Winifred, in
an ecstasy of delight at this nonsense. Then her deep love
overpowered her quite, and she said, her eyes suffused with
tears, "Henry, you can't tliiiik how I love you. I'm sure I
couldn't live even in heaven without you."

Then came the shadow of a lich-owl, as it whisked past
us towards the apple-trees.

"Why, you'd be obliged to live without me, Winifred, if I
were still at Raxton."

"No," said she, "Tm quite sure I couldn't. I should have
to come in the winds and play round you on the sands.
I should have to peep over the clouds and watch you. I
should have to follow you about wherever you went.
I should have to beset you till you said, 'Bother Winnie ! I
wish she'd keep in heaven.' "

I saw, however, that the owl's shadow had disturbed her,
and I lifted the latch of the cottage door for her. We were
met by a noise so loud that it might have come from a trom-
bone.

"Why, what on earth is that?" I said.

I could see the look of shame break over W^inifred'^ T^at-
ures as she said "Father." Yes, it was the snoring of Wynne
in a drunken sleep: it filled the entire cottage.

The poor girl seemed to feel that that brutal noise had,
somehow, coarsened Jier, and she actually half shrank from
me as I gave her a kiss and left her.

Wondering how I should at such an hour get into the
house without disturbing my mother and the servants, I
passed along the same road where, as a crippled child, I had
hobbled on that bright afternoon when love was first re-
vealed to me. Ah, what a different lov^e was this which was
firing my blood, and making dizzy my brain! That child-
love had softened my heart in its deep distress, and widened
my soul. This new and mighty passion in whose grasp I
Avas, this irresistible power that had seized and possessed my
entire being, wrought my soul in quite a different sort, con-
centrating and narrowing my horizon till the human life out-

Aylwin

side the circle uf our love seemed far, far away, as though
I were gazing through the wrong end of a telescope. 1
had learned that he who truly loves is indeed born again,
becomes a new and different man. Was it only a few short
hours ago, I asked myself, that I was listening to my moth-
er's attack upon Winifred? Was it this very evening that
I was ."fitting in Dullingham Church?

How far away in the past seemed those events! And as to
my mother's anger against Winifred, that anger and cruel
scorn of class which had concerned me so much, how insig-
nificant now seemed this and every other obstacle in love's
path! I looked up at the moonlit sky; I leaned upon a gate
and looked across the silent fields where Winifred and I
used to gather violets in spring, hedge-roses in summer,
mushrooms in autumn, and I said, "I will marry her; she
shall be mine; she shall be mine, though all the powers on
earth, all the powers in the universe, should say nay."

As I spoke I saw that lights were flashing to and fro in
the windows of the Hall. "My poor father is dead," I said.
I turned and ran up the road. "Ch, that 1 could have seen
him once again!" ^t the hall door I was met by a servant,
and learnt that, while I had been love-making on the sands,
a message had come from the Continent with news of my
father's death.

VI.

There was no meeting Winifrrd on the next night.

It was decided that my uncle's private secretary should
go to Switzerland to bring the body to England. I (re-
membering my promise about the mementoc ) insisted on
accompanyhig him. We started on the morrow, preceded
by a message to my father's Swiss friends ordering an em-
balmment. Before starting I tried to see Winifred; but she
had gone to Dullingham.

On our arrival at the little Swiss town, we found that the
embalmment had been begun. The body was still in the
hands of a famous embalmer — an Italian Jew settled at
Geneva, the only successful rival there of Professor Las-
kowski. He was celebrated for having revived the old He-
braic method of embalmment in spices, and improving it by

iould
(re-
on
!ded
em-
she

the
the
at
.as-
Ele-
It by

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics j^

llic aid of the modern discoveries in antiseptics of Las-
kovvski, Signor Franchina of Naples, and Dr. Dupre of
Paris. This physician told me that by his process the body
would, without the peculiarly-sealed coffin used by the Swiss
embalmers, last "firm and white as Carrara marble for a
thousand years."

The people at the chalet had naturally been much as-
tonished to find upon my father's breast a jewelled cross
lying. As soon as I enlered the house they handed it to me.

For some reason or another this amulet and the curse
had haunted my imagination as much as if I believed in
amulets and curses, though my reason told me that ^.very-
thing of the kind was sheer nonsense. I could not sleep for
thinking about it, and in the night I rose from my bed, and,
opening the window, held up the cross in the moonlight.
The facets caught the silvery rays and focused them. The
aiiiulet seemed to shudder with some prophecy of woe. It
was now that, for the first time, I began to feel the signs of
that great struggle between reason and the inherited instinct
of superstition which afterwards played so important a part
in my life. I then took up the parchment scroll, and opened
it and re-read the curse. The great letters in which the Eng-
lish version was printed seemed to me larger by the light
of the moon than they had seemed by daylight.

We had to wait for some time in Switzerland. In a locked
drawer I found the casket and a copy of The Veiled Queen.
I read much in the book. Every word I found there was in
flat contradiction to my own mode of thought.

Did the shock of this dreadful catastrophe drive Winifred
from my mind? No, nothing could have done that. My
soul seemed, as I have said, to be new-born, and all emo-
tions, passions, and sentiments that were not connected with
her seemed to be shadowy and distant, like ante-natal
dreams. It would be hypocrisy not to confess this frankly,
regardless of the impression against me it may make on the
reader's mind. Yet I had a real affection for my father. In
spite of his extraonHnary obliviousness of my very existence
till the last year of his life, I was strongly attached to him,
and his death made me see nothing but his virtues; yet my
soul was so filled with niiy passion for Winifred as to b?ve
l)ut little room for sorrow. As to my mother, her attach-
ment to my father knew no bounds, and her grief at her be-
reavement knew none.

Aylwin

^mt

A clay or two before the funeral my uncle Aylwin of Al-
vanley arrived, and his presence was a great comfort to her.
Owing to my father's position in the county a great deal of
funereal state was considered necessary, and there was much
hurry and bustle.

My uncle having known Wynne when quite a yotmg man,
before intemperance had degraded him, took an interest in
him still. He had called at the cottage as he passed along
Wilderness Road towards Raxton, and the result of this was
that the organist came to speak to him at our house upon
some matter in connection with the funeral service. My
mother was greatly vexed at this. Her conduct on the oc-
casion alarmed me. Ever since Frank's death had made it
evident not only that I should succeed to all the property of
my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley, but that I might even succeed
to something greater, to the earldom which was the glory
and pride of the Aylwins, my mother had kept a jealous and
watchful eye upon me, being, as I aftenvards learned, not
unmindful of the early child-loves of Winifred and myself;
and the advent to Raxton of Winifred, as a beautiful tall
girl, had aroused her fears as well as her wrath.

The dav of the funeral came, and the Question of the cas-
ket and the amulet was on my mind. The i' -. ^tant thing,
of course, was that the matter should be Kept absolutelv
secret. The valuables must be placed in secrecy with the
embalmed corpse at the last moment, before the screwing
down of the coffin, when servants and undertakers were out
of sight and hearing.

My mother knew what had been my father's instructions
to me, and was desirous that they should be fulfdled, though
she scorned the superstition. She and I placed the casket
and the scroll bearing the written curse upon it beneath
my father's head, and hung the chain of the amulet around
his neck, so that the cross lay with the jewels uppermost
upon his breast. Then the undertakers were called in to
screw down the coffin in my presence. My mother after-
wards called me to her room, and told me that she was much
troubled about the cross. The amulet being of great value,
my uncle Aylwin of Alvanley had tried to dissuade her from
carrying irto execution what he called ''the absurd whim of
a mystic"; but my mother urged my promise, and there had
been Warm words between them, as my mother told me —
adding, however, "and the worst of it is, that scamp W' nrjC;

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics ']j

whom your uncle introduced into this house without my
knowledge or sanction, was passing the door while your
uncle was talking, and if he did not hea'* every word about
the jewelled cross, drink must have stupefied him indeed.
He is my only fear in connection with the jewels." Her dis-
like of Wynne had made her forget for the moment the
effect her words must have upon me.

"Mother," I said, *'your persistent prejudice and injustice
towards this man astonish me. Wynne, though poor and
degraded now, is a gentleman born, and is no more likely to
violate a tomb than the best Aylwin that ever lived."

I will not dwell upon the scene at the funeral. I saw my
father's coffin placed in the crypt that spread beneath the
deserted church. It was by the earnest wish of my father
that he was buried in a church already deserted because the
grip of the resistless sea was upon it. At this very time a
large slice of the cliff behind the church was pronounced
dangerous, and I perceived that new rails were lying on the
grass ready to be fixed up, further inland than ever.

■1

VII.

My mother retired to her room immediately on our return
to the house. My uncle stayed till just before dinner, and
then left. I seemed to be alone in a deserted house, so still
were the servants, so quiet seemed everything. But now
what was this sense of undefined dread that came upon me
and would not let me rest? Why did I move from room to
room? and what was goading me? Something was stirring
like a blind creature across my brain, and it was too hideous
to confront. Why should I confront it? Why scare one's
soul and lacerate one's heart at every dark fear that peeps
through the door of imagination, when experience teaches
us that out of every hundred such dark fears ninety-nine are
sure to turn out mere magic-lantern bogies?

The evening wore on, and yet I zvoiild not face this phan-
tom fear, though it refused to quit me.

The servants went to bed quite early that night, and when
the butler came to ask me if I should "want anything more,"
I said "only a candle," and went up to my bedroom.

7«

Ayl

win

!■■

"I will turn into bed," I said, "and sleep over it. The
idea is a figment of an over-wrought brain. Desti'^y would
never play any man a trick like that which I have lared to
dream of. Among human calamities it would be if once
the most shocking and the most whimsical — this imaginary
woe that scares me. Destiny is merciless, but who ever heard
of Destiny playing mere cruel practical jokes upon man ? Up
to now the Fates have never set up as humourists. Now,
for a man to love, to dote upon, a girl whose father is the
violator of his own father's tomb — a wretch who has called
down upon himself the most terrible curse of a dead man
that has ever been uttered — that would be a fate too fantas-
tically cruel to be permitted by Heaven — by any governing
power whose sanctions were not those of a whimsical
cruelty."

Yet those words of my mother's about Wynne, and her
suspicions of him, were flitting about the air of the room
like fiery-eyed bats.

The air of the room — ah ! it was stifling me. I opened the
window and leant out. But that rm le matters a thousand
times worse, for the moon was now at the very full, and
staring across — staring at what ? — staring across the sea at
the tall tower of the old church on the cliff, where perhaps
the sin — the "unpardonable sin," according to Cymric ideas
— of sacrilege — sacrilege committed by her father upon the
grave of mine — might at this moment be going on. The
body of the church was hidden from me by the intervening
trees, and nothing but the tall tower shone in the silver light.
So intently did the moon stare at it, that it seemed to me
that the inside of the church, with its silent aisles, arches
and tombs, was reflected on her disc. The moon oppressed
me, and when I turned my eyes away I seemed to see hang-
ing in the air the silent aisles of a church, through whose
windows the moonlight was pouring, flooding them with a
radiance more ghastly than darkness, concentrating all its
light on the chancel, beneath which I knew that my father
was lying in the dark crypt with a cross on his breast. I
turned for relief to look in the room, and there, in the dark-
ness made by the shadow of the bed, I seemed to read, writ-
ten in pale, trembling flame, the words:

"Let there be no man to pity him, nor to have com-

PASSION UPON HIS FATHERLESS CHILDREN. . . . LeT

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 79

rji

HIS CHILDREN BE VAGABONDS, AND BEG THEIR BREAD: LET
THEM SEEK IT ALSO OUT OF DESOLATE PLACES."

I returned to the window for relief from the bedroom.

''Now, let me calmly consider the case in all its bearings,"
I said to myself, drawing a chair to the window and sitting
down with my elbows resting on the sill. "Suppose Wynne
really did overhear the altercation between my mother and
my uncle, which seems scarcely probable, has drink really
so demoralized him, so brutalized him, that for drink he
would commit the crime of sacrilege? There are no signs of
his having sunk so low as that. But suppose the crime zvcre
committed, what then? Do I really believe that the curse oi
my father and of the Psalmist would fall upon Winifred's
pure and innocent head? Certainly not. I do not believe
in the effect of curses at all. I do not believe in any super-
natural interference with the natural laws of the universe."

Ah! but this thought about the futility of the curse, about
the folly of my father's superstitions, brought me no com-
fort. I knew that, brave as Winifred was as a child, she was,
when confronting the material world, very superstitious. 1
remembered that as a child, whenever I said, "What a happy
day it has been!" she would not rest until she had made me
add, "and shall have many more," because of her feeling of
the prophetic power of words. 1 knew that the superstitions
of the Welsh hills awed her. I knew that it had been her lot
to imbibe, not only Celtic, but Romany superstitions. I
knew that the tribe of Gypsies with whom she had been
thrown into contact, the Lovells and the Boswells, though
superior to the rest of the Romany race, are the most super-
stitious of all, and that Winifred had become an object of
strong affection to the most superstitious even among that
tribe, one Sinfi Lovell. I knew from something that had
once fallen from her as a child on the sands, when prattling
about Sinfi Lovell and Rhona Boswell, that especially pow-
erful with her was the idea (both Romany and Celtic) about
the effect of a dead man's curse. I knew that this idea had a
dreadful fascination for her — the fascination of repulsion. J
knew also that reason may strive with superstition as vith
the other instincts, but it will strive in vain. I knew that it
would have been worse than idle for nie to say to Winifred,
"There is no curse in the matter. The dreaming m}'s(ic
who begot and forgot me, what curse could he call down on

\v ■

Aylwin

a soul like mj' Winifred's ?" Her reason might partly accept
my arguments; but ?' lightway they would be spurned by her
instincts and her traaitional habits of thought. Tlie terrible
voice of the Psalmist would hush every other sound. Her
sweet soul would pine under the blazing fire of a curse, real
or imaginary; her life would be henceforth but a bitter pen-
ance. Like the girl in Coleridge's poem of "The Three
Graves," her very flesh would waste before the fires of her
imagination.

"No," said I, "such a calamity as this which I dread
Heaven would not permit. So cruel a joke as this Hell itself
would not have the heart to play."

It^:

My meditations were interrupted by a sound, and then by
a sensation such as I cannot describe. Whence came that
shriek? It was like a shriek coming from a distance — loud
there, faint here, and yet it seemed to come from me! It was
as though / were witnessing some dreaatul sight unutterable
and intolerable. And then it semed the voice of Winifred,
and then it seemed her father's voice, and finally it seemed
the voice of my own father struggling in his tomb. My
horror stopped the pulses of my heart for a moment, and
then it passed.

".Tt comes from the church or from behind the church,"
I said, as the shriek was followed by an angry murmur as of
mufifled thunder. All had occurred within the space of half
a second. I quickly but cautiously opened my bedroom
door, extinguishing my light before doing so, and began to
creep downstairs, fearing to wake my mother. My shoes
creaked, so I took them off and carried them. Crossing
the hall, I softly drew the bolts of the front door; then I
passed into the moonlight. The gravel of the carriage-drive
cut through my stockings, and a pebble bruised one of my
heels so that I nearly fell. When I got safely under the
shadow of the large cedar of Lebanon in the middle of the
lawn, I stopped and looked up at my mother's window to
see if she were a waccher. The blinds were down, there was
no movement, no noise. Evidently she was asleep. I put on
my shoes and hurried across the lawn towards the high road.
I walked at a sharp pace towards the old church. The bark
of a distant dog or the baa of a waking sheep was the only
sound. When I reached the churchyard, I peered in dread

The'^Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 8i

over the lich-gate before I opened it. Neither Wynne nor
any living creature was to be seen in the churchyard.

The soothing smell of the sea came from the cliflfs, mak-
ing me wonder at my fears. On the loneliest coast, in the
dunnest night, a sense of companionship comes with the
smell of seaweed. At my feet spread the great churchyard,
with its hundreds of little green hillocks and white grave-
stones, sprinkled here and there with square, box-like tombs.
All quietly asleep in the moonlight! Here and there an
aged headstone seemed to nod to its neighbour, as though
muttering in its dreams. The old church, bathed in the radi-
ance, seemed larger than it had ever done in daylight, and
incomparably more grand and lonely.

On the left were the tall poplar trees, rustling and whis-
pering among themselves. Still, there might be at the back
of the church mischief working. I walked round thither.
The ghostly shadows on the long grass might have been
shadows thrown by the ruins of Tadmor, so quietly did thev
lie and dream, A weight was uplifted from my soul. A
balm of sweet peace fell upon my heart. The noises I had
heard had been imaginary, conjured up by love and fear;
or they might have been an echo of distant thunder. The
windows of the church no doubt looked ghastly, as I peered
in to see whether Wynne's lantern was moving about. But
all was still. T lingered in the churchyard close by the spot
where I had first seen the child Winifred and heard the
Welsh song.

J went to look at the sea from the cliff. Here, however,
there was vsomething sei, nn] at last. The spot where
years ago I had sat when yVinnre/l's song had struck upon
my ear and awoke me to a rjc\y Hre — 7vas gone! "This then
was the noise I heard," I said; "fhe rumbling was the fall-
ing of the earth ; the shriek was the tearing down of trees."

Another slice, a slice weighing thousands of tons, had
slipped since the afternoon from the churchyard on to the
sands bel(>.v, "Perhaps the tread of the townspeople who
came to witness the fimeral may have given the last shake
to the soil," T said.

T stood and looked over the newly-made gap at the great
hungry water. Considering the little wind, the swell on the
North Sea was tremendous. Far away there had been a
storm somewhere. The moon was laying a band of living
light across the vast bosom of the sea, like a girdle. Only

li;

Aylwin

i I' >; :

a month had elapsed since that never-to-be-forgotten moon-
light walk with Winifred. But what a world of emotion
since then!

VIII.

I WALKED along the cliff to the gangway behind Flinty
Point, and descended in order to see what havoc the land-
slip had made with the graves.

looked across the same moonlit sands where I had seen
Winifred 5.0 short a time before, when I had a father. To
my delight and surprise, there she was again. There was
Winifred, walking thoughtfully towards Church Cove with
Snap by her side, who seemed equally thoughtful and se-
date. The relief of finding that my fears about her father
were groundless added to my joy at seeing her. With my
own dead fatlier lying within a few roods of me I ran towards
her in a state of high exhilaration, forgetting everything but
her. With sympathetic looks for my bereavement she met
me, and we walked hand-in-hand in silence.

After a little while she said: "My father told me he was
very busy to-night, and wished me to come on the sands for
a walk, but I little hoped to meet you; I am very pleased
we have met, for to-morrow I am going to London."

"To London?" I said, in dismay at the thought of losing
her so soon. "Why are you going to London, Winnie?"

"Oh," said she, with the same innocent look of businesf:-
like Importance which, at our first meeting as children, had
so impressed me when she pulled out the key to open the
church-door, "I'm going on business."

"On business! And how long do you stay?"

*T don't stay at all; I'm coming back immediately."

"Come," I exclaimed, "there's a little comfort in that, at
least. Snap and I can wait for one day."

"Good-night," said Winifred.

"Have you not seen the great landslip at the churchyard?"
T asked, taking her hand and pointing to the new promon-
tory which the debris of the fall had made.

"Another landslip?" said she. "Poor dear old churchyard,
it will soon all be gone! Snap and I must have been far
away when that fell. But I remember saying to him, 'Hark
at the thunder, Snap!' and then I heard a sound like a shriek

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 83

that appalled nie. It recalled j. ound I once heard in Shire-
Carnarvon."

"What was it, Winnie?"

"You've hf^ard me when T was a little girl talk of my
Gypsy sister Sinfi?"

"Often," I said.

"She loves me more than anybody else in the whole
world," said Winifred simply. "She says she would lay
down her life f ^r me, and I really believe he would. Well,
there is not far from where I used to live a famous cascade
called the Swallow Falls, where the water drops down a
chasm of p^reat deptli. If you listen to the noise of the cata-
ract, you may hear mingled with it a peculiar kind of wail
as from a man in great agony. It is said to be the wail of
Sir John Wynn, of Gwydir, whose spirit is under .1 curse,
and is imprisoned at the bottom of the falls on account of
his cruelty and misdeeds on earth. On those rare nights
when the full moon shines down the chasm, the wail be-
comes an agonized shriek. Once on a bright moonlight
night Sinfi and I went to see these falls. The moonlight on
the cascade had exactly the same supernatural appearance
that it has now falling upon these billows. Sinfi sings some
of our Welsh songs, and accompanies herself on a peculiar
obsolete Welsh instrument called a crwth, which she always
carries with her. While we were listening to the cataract
and what she called the Wynn wail, she berin to sing the
wild old air. Then at once the wail sprang into a loud
shriek; Sinfi said the shriek of a cursed spirit; and the shi ek
was exactly like the sound I heard from the cliffs a little
while ago."

"I heard the same noise, Winnie. It was simply the rend-
ing and cracking of the poor churchyard trees as they fell."

She turned back with me to the water-mark to see the
waves come tumbling in beneath the moon. We sauntered
along the sea-margin again, heedless of the passage of time.

And again (as on that betrothal night) Winifred prattled
on, while I listened to the prattle, craftily throwing in a word
or two, now and then, to direct the course of the sweet music
into -uch channels as best pleased my lordly whim, — when
sudd ily, against my will and reason, th-Te came into my
mind hat idea of the sea's prophecy which was so familiar to
my childhood, but which my studies had now made me
despise.

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Aylwin

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The sea then threw up to Winifred's feet a piece of sea-
weed. It was a long band of common weed, that would in the
sunlight hav^e shone a bright red. And at that very moment
— right across the sparkling bar the moon had laid over the
sea — there passed, without any cloud to cast it, a shadow.
And my father's description of his love-tragedy haunted me,
I knew not why. And right across my life, dividing it in
twain like a burn-scar, came and lay forever that strip of red
seaweed. Why did my father's description of his own love-
tragedy haunt me?

Before recalling the words that had fallen from my father
in S 'itzerland, I was a boy: in a few minutes aftenvards,
1 was a man with an awful knowledge of destiny in my eyes
— a man struggling with calamity, and fainting in the grip
of dread. My manhood, I say, dates from the throwing up
of that strip of seaweed. Winifred picked up the weed and
made a necklace of it, in the old childish way, knowing how
much it would please me.

"Isn t it a lovely colour?" she said, as it glistened in tiie
moonHght. "Isn't it just as beautiful and just as precious
as if it were really made of the jewels it seems to rival?"

"It is as red as the reddest ruby," I replied, putting out
my hand and grasping the slippery substance.

"Would you believe," said Winnie, "that I never saw a
ruby in my life? And now I particularly want to know all
about rubies."

"Why do you want particularly to know?"

"Because," said Winifred, "my father, when he wished me
to come out for a walk, had been talking a great deal about
rubies."

"Your father had been talking about rubies, Winifred —
how very odd !"

"Yes," said Winifred, "and he talked about diamonds
too."

"The Curse!" I murmured, and clasped her to my breast.
"Kiss me, Winifred!"

There had come a bite of sudden fire at my heart, and I
shuddered with a dreadful knowledge, like the captain of an
unarmed ship, who, while the unconscious landsmen on
board are gaily scrutinizing a sail that like a speck has ap-
peared on the horizon, shudders with the knowledge of what
the speck ts, and hears in imagination the yells, and sees the
knives, of the Lascar pirates just starting in pursuit. As I

out

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 85

took in the import of those innocent words, falling from
Winifred's bright lips, falling as unconsciously as water-
drops over a coral reef in tropical seas alive with the eyes of
a thousand sharks, my skin seemed to roughen with dread,
and my hair began to stir.

At first she resisted my movement, but looking in my
eyes and seeing that something had deeply disturbed me,
she let me kiss her.

"What did you say, Henry?"

"That I love you so, Winnie, and cannot let you go just
yet."

"What a dear fellow it is!" she said; "and all this ado
about a poor girl with scarcely shoes to her feet." Then,
after an instant's pause, she said: "But I thought you said
something very different. I thought you said something
about a curse, and that scared me."

"Scared Winifred!" I said. "Fancy anything scaring
Winnie, who threatens to hit people when they offend her."

"Ah! but I am scared," said she, "at things from, the other
world, and especially at a curse."

"Why, what do you know about curses, Winifred?"

"Oh, a good deal. I have never forgotten that shriek of
a cursed spirit which I heard at the Swallcv/ Falls. And
only a short time ago Sinfi Lovell nearly frightened me to
death by a story of a whole Gypsy tribe having withered,
one after the other — grandfathers, fathers, and children —
through a dead man's curse. But what is the matter with
you, Henry? You surely have turned very pale."

"Well, Winnie," said I, "I am a little, just a little faint.
After the funeral I could take no dinner. But it will be over
in a minute. Let us go back a few yards and sit down upon
the dry sand, and have a little more chat."

We went and sac down, and my heart slowly resumed its
function.

"Let me see, Winnie, what we were talking about? About
rubies and diamonds, I think, were we not? You said that
when your father bade you come out for a walk to-night,
he had just been talking about rubies and diam.onds. What
was he saying about them, Winnie? But come and lay
your head here while you tell me ; lay it on my breast, Win-
nie, as you used to do in Graylingham Wood, and on these
same sands."

Evidently the earnestness of my manner and the sup-

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Aylwin

pressed passion in my voice drove out of her mind all her
wise saws about the perils of wealth and all her wise deter-
minations about the proposed betrothal, for she came and
sat by my side and laid her head upon my breast,

"Yes, like that/' I said; "and now tell me what your father
was saying about precious stones ; for T, too, take an interest
in jewels, and have a great knowledge of them."

"My father," said Winifred, "is going to have some dia-
monds and rubies given to him to-night by a friend of his,
a sailor, who has come from India, and I am to go to Lon-
don to-morrow to sell some of them; for you know, dear,
we are very poor. That is why I am determined to go back
to Shire-Carnarvon and see if I can get a situation as a gov-
erness. Miss Dalrymple's recommendation will be of great
aid. Poverty afflicts father more than it afflicts most people,
and the rubies and diamonds and things will be of no use to
us, you know."

I could make her no answer.

"It seems a very strange kind of present from my father's
friend," she continued, meditatively; "but it is a very kind
one for all that. But, Henry, you surely are still very un-
well ; your heart is thumping underneath my ear like a fire-
engine."

"They are all love-thumps for Winifred," I said, with pre-
tended jocosity; "they are all love-thumps for my Winnie."

"But of course," said she, "this is quite a secret about the
precious stones. My father enjoined me to tell no one, be-
cause the temptation to people is so great, and the cottage
might be robbed, or I might be waylaid going to London.
But of course I may tell you; he never thought of you."

"No, Winnie, he never thought of me. You are very fond
of him; very fond of your father, are you not?"

"Oh, yes," said she, "I love him more than all the world
— next to you."

"Then he is kind to you, Winnie?"

"Ye — yes, as kind as he can be — considering "

"Considering what, Winnie?"

"Considering fhat he's often — unwell, you know."

"Winnie," I said, as I gazed in the innocent eyes, "whom
are you considered to be the most like, your father or your
mother"^"

"1 never knew my mother, but I am said to be partly like
her. Why do you ask?"

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 87

"Only an idle question. You love me, Winnie?"

"What a question!"

"And you will do what I ask you to do, if I ask you very
earnestly, Winnie?"

"Certumly," said Winifred, giving, with a forced laugh,
the lisp with which that word had been given on a now
famous occasion.

"Well, Winifred, I told you that I feel an interest in pre-
cious stones, and have some knowledge of them. There are
certain stones to which I have the greatest antipathy; dia-
monds and rubies are the chief of these. Now I want you
to promise that diamonds and rubies and beryls shall never
touch these fingers, these dear fingers, Winnie, which are
mine, you know ; they are mine now,'* and Idrcwthe smooth
nails slowly along my lips. "You are mine now, every bit."

"Every bit," said Winifred, but she looked perplexed.

She saw, however, by my face that, for some reason or
other, I was deeply in earnest. She gave the promise. And
I knew at least that those fingers would not be polluted,
come what would. As to her going to London with the
spoil, I knew how to prevent that.

But w hat course of action was I now to take? At this very
moment 'perhaps Winifred's father was violating my father's
tomb, unless indeed the crime might even yet be prevented.
There was one hope, however. The drunken scoundrel
whose daughter was my world, I knew to be a procrasti-
nator in everything. His crime might, evcMi yet, be only a
crime in intent ; and, if so, I could prevent it easily enough.
My first business was to hurry to the church, and, if not yet
too late, keep guard over the tomb. But to achieve this
I must get quit of Winifred without a moment's delay. Now
Winifred's most direct path to the cottage was the path I
myself must take to the chnrch, the gangway behind Flinty
Point. Yet she must not pass the church with me, lest an
encounter with her father should take place. There was but
one course open. I must induce her to take the gangway
behind the other point of the cove ; and how was this to
be coinpassed? That was what I was racking my brain
about.

"Winifred," I said at last, as we sat and looked at the sea,
"I begin to fear we must be moving."

She started up, vexed that the hint to move had come
from me.

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Aylwin

"The fact is," I said, "I particularly want to go into the
old church."

"Into the old church to-night?" said Winifred, with a look
of astonishment and alarm that I could not understand.

"Yes; something was left undone there this afternoon at
the funeral, and I must go at once. But why do you look
so alarmed?"

"Oh, don't go into the old church to-night," said Wini-
fred.

I stood and looked at her, puzzled and strangely dis-
turbed.

"Henry," said she, "I know you will think me very foolish,
but I have not yet got over the fright that shriek gave me,
the shriek we both heard the moment before the landslip.
That shriek was not a noise made by the rending of trees,
Henry. No, no; we both know better than that, Henry."

I gave a start; for, try as I would, I had not really suc-
ceeded in persuading myself that what I had heard was any-
thing but a human voice in terror or in pain.

"What do you think the noise was, then?" said T.

"I don't know; but I know what I felt as it came shud-
dering along the sand, and then went wailing over the sea."

"What did y.^u feel, Winnie?"

"My heart stood still, for it seemed to me to be the call
from the grave."

"The call from the grave! and pray what is that? I feel
how sadly my education has been neglected."

"Don't scofif, Henry. It is said that v/hen the fate of an
old family is at stake, there will sometimes come to him
who represents it a call from the grave, and when I saw Snap
standing stock still, his hair bristling with terror, I knew
that it was no earthly shriek. I felt sure it was the call from
the grave, and I knelt on the sands and prayed. Henry,
Henry, don't go in the church to-night."

That Winifred's words afifected me profoundly I need not
say. The shriek, whatever it was, had been responded to by
her soul and by mine in the same mysterious way. But the
important thing to do was to prevent her from imagining
that her superstitious terrors had affected me.

"Really, Winnie," I said, "this double-voiced shriek of
yours, which is at once the shriek of the Welshman at the
bottom of the swollen falls and the Celtic call from the
grave, is the most dramatic shriek I ever heard of. It would

into the

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and.

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Dm the
would

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 89

make its fortune on the stage. But with all its power of
being the shriek of two different people at once, it must not
prevent my going into the church to do my duty ; so we
had better part here at this very spot. You go up the cliffs
by Needle Point, and / will take Flinty Point gangway."

"But why not ascend the cliffs together?" said Winifred.

"Why, the prying coastguard might be passing, and might
wonder to see us in the churchyard on the night of my
father's funeral (he might take us for two ghosts in love, you
know). However, we need not part just yet. We can walk
on a little further into the cove before our paths diverge."

Winifred made no demur, though she looked puzzled, as
we were then much nearer to the gangway I had selected
for myself than to the gangway I had allotted to her.

IX.

Winifred and I were in the little horseshoe curve called
"Church Cove," but also called sometimes "Mousetrap
Cove," because, as I have already mentioned, a person im-
prisoned in it by the tide could only escape by means of a
boat from the sea.

Needle Point was at one extremity of the cove and Flinty
Point at the other. In front of us, therefore, at the very
centre of the cliff that surrounded the cove, was the old
church, which I was to reach as soon as possible. To reach
a gangway up the cliff it was necessary to pass quite out of
the cove, round either Flinty Point or Needle Point ; for the
cliff within the cove was perpendicular, and in some parts
actually overhanging.

When we reached the softer sands near the back of the
cove, where the Vv-alking was difficult, I bade Winifred good
night, and she turned somewhat demurely to the left on her
way to Needle Point, between which and the spot where we
now parted she would have to pass below the church on the
cliff, and close by the great masses of debris from the new
landslip that had fallen from the churchyard. This land-
slip (which had taken place since she had left home for her
moonlight walk) had changed the shape of the cove into a
figure somewhat like the Greek f.

fl;

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90 Aylwin

I walked rapidly towards Flinty Point, which 1 should
have to double before 1 could reach the gangway I was to
take. So feverishly possessed had 1 become by the desire to
prevent the sacrilege, if possible, that 1 had walked some
distance away from Winifred before I observed how high
the returning tide had risen in the cove.

When 1 now looked at I'linty Point, round which 1
was to turn, I saw that it was already in deep water,
and that I could not reach the gangway outside the
cove. It was necessary, therefore, to turn back and
ascend by the gangway Winifred was making for, be-
hind Needle Point, which did not project so far into
the sea. So I turned back. As I did so, I perceived
that she had reached the projecting mass of debris in the
middle of the semicircle below the churchyard, and was
looking at it. Then I saw her stoop, pick up what seemed
a paper parcel, open it, and hold it near her face to trace
out the letters by the moonlight. Then I saw her give a
start as she read it. I walked towards her, and soon reached
the landslip. Evidently what she read agitated her much.
She seemed to read it and re-read it. When she saw me she
put it behind her back, trying to conceal it from me.

"What have you picked up, Winifred?" I said, in much
alarm; for my heart told me that it was in some way con-
nected with her father and the shriek.

"Oh, Henry!" said she, "1 was in hopes you had not
seen it. I am so grieved for you. This parchment contains
a curse written in large letters. Some sacrilegious wretch
has broken into the church and stolen a cross placed in your
father's tomb."

God! — It was the very same parchment scroll from my
father's tomb on which was written the curse I I was struck
dumb with astonishment and dismay. The whole terrible
truth of the situation broke in upon me at one flash. The
mysterious shriek was explained now. Wynne had evi-
dently broken upon the tomb as soon as his daughter was
out of the way. He had then, in order to reach the cottage
without running the risk of being seen by a chance pas-
senger on the Wilderness Road, blundered about the edge
of the clifY at the very moment when it was giving way, and
had fallen with it. It was his yell of despair amid the noise
of the landslip that Winifred and I had both heard. My sole
thought was for Winifred. She had read the curse; but

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 9 1

where was the dead body of her father that would proclaim
upon whose head the curse had fallen? 1 stared around nie
in dismay. She saw how deeply I was disturbed, but little
dreamed the true cause.

"Oh, Henry," said she, "to think that you should have
sucn a grief as this; your dear father's tomb violated!" and
she sat down and sobbed. "But there is a God in heaven,"
she added, rising with great solemnity. "Whoever has com-
mitted this dreadful crime against God and man will rue
the day he was born : — the curse of a dead man who has
been really wronged no penance or prayer can cure, —
so my aunt in Wales used to say, and so Sinii says ; — it clings
to the wrongdoer and to his children. That cry I heard
was the voice of vengeance, and it came from your father's
tomb."

"It is a most infamous robbery," I said; "but as to the
curse, that is of course as power less to work mischief as the
breath of a baby." And again I anxiously looked around to
see wJiere was the dead body of Wynne, which I knew must
be close by.

"Oh, Henry!" said she, "listen to these words, these awful
words of your dead father, and the words of the Bible too."

And she held up to her eyes, as though fascinated by it,
the parchment scroll, and read aloud in a voice so awe-
struck that it did not ceem to be her voice at all:

''He who shall violate this tomb, — he who shall steal this
amulet, hallozved as a love-token betzveen me and my dead wife,
— he who shall dare to lay a sacrilegious hand upon this cross,
stands cursed by God, cursed by love, and cursed by me, Philip
Aylwin, lying here. 'Let there be no man to pity him, nor to
have compassion upon his fatherless children. . . . Let his
children be vagabonds, and beg their bread: let tlwm seek it also
out of desolate places.' — Psalm cix. So saith the Lord. Amen."

"I am in the toils," I murmured, with grinding teeth.

"What a frightful curse !" she said, shuddering. "It terri-
fies me to think of it. How hard it seems," she continued,
"that the children should be cursed for the father's crimes."

"But, Winifred, they are not so cursed," I cried. "It is
all a hideous superstition: one of Man's idiotic lies!"

"Henry," said she, shocked at my irreverence, "it is so ;
the Bible says it, and all life shows it. Ah ! I wonder what

I ill

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Aylvv

: -'-f-,

wretch committed the sacrilege, and why he had no pity
oil liis poor innocent cliildren!"

VVliile she was talking, 1 stoo[)ed and [)icked up the casket
from which tlie letters had been forced by the fall. She had
not seen it. 1 pnt it in my pocket.

"ilenry, I am so grieved for you," said Winifred again,
and she came and W(.)und her linL;ers in mine.

Grieved for vie! But where was her father's dead body?
That was the thought that appalled me. Should we come
upon it in the debris'^ What was to be done? Owing to the
tide, there was no turning back now to Flinty Point. The
projecting debris must be passed. There was no dallying
for a moment. If we lingered we should be caught by the
tide in Mousetrap Cove, and then nothing could save us.
Suppose in passing the debris we should come upon her
father's corpse! The idea was insupportable. "Thank God,
however," I murmured, "she will not even then know the
very worst; she will see the corpse of her father who has
fallen with the cliff, but she need rot and will not associate
him with the sacrilege and the curse."

As I picked up the letters that had been scattered from
the casket, she said :

"I cannot get that dreadful curse out of my head; to
think that the children of the despoiler should be cursed by
God, and cursed by your father, and yet they are as inno-
cent as I am."

"Best to forget it," said I, standing still, for I dared not
move toward the debris.

"We must get on, Henry," said she, "for look, the tide is
unusually high to-night. You have turned back, 1 see, be-
cause Flinty Point is already deep in the water."

"Yes," I said, "I must turn Needle Point with you. But
as to the sacrilege, let us dismiss it from our minds; what
cannot be helped had better be forgotten."

I then cautiously turned the corner of the debris, leading
her after me in such a way that my body acted as a screen.
Then my eyes encountered a spectacle whose horror chilled
my blood, and haunts me to this day in ?ny dreams. About
twelve feet above the general level of the sand, buried to
the breast behind a mass of greensward fallen from the
graveyard, stood the dead body of Wynne, amid a confused
heap of earth, gravestones, trees, shrubs, bones, and shat-
tered coffins. Bolt upright it stood, staring with horribly

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 93

distorted features, as in terror, the crown of the hea<l
smashed h> a fallen gravestone. Upon his breast glittered
the rubies and diamordi and beryls of the cross, sparkling
in the light of the moon, and seeming to be endowed with
conscious life. It was evident that he had, while groping
his way out of the crypt, slung the cross round his neck, in
order to free his hands. I shudder as I recall the spectacle.
The siglit would have struck Winifred dead, or sent her
raving mad, on the spot; but she had not turned the corner,
and I had just time to wheel sharply round, and thrust my
body between her and the spectacle. The dog saw it, and,
foaming with terror, pointed at it.

"I beg your pardon, Winifred," I said, falling upon her
and pushing her back.

Then I stood paralysed as the full sinister meaning of the
situation broke in upon my mind. Had the debris fallen in
any other way I might have saved Winifred from seeing the
most cruel feature of the hideous spectacle, the cross, the
evidence of her father's sacrilege. I might, perhaps, on
some pretence, have left her on this side of the debris, and
turning the corner, have mounted the heap and removed
the cross gleaming in hideous mockery on the dead man's
breast, and giving back the moonbeams in a cross of angry
fire. One glance, however, had shown me that before this
could be done there was a wall of slippery sward to climb,
for the largest portion of the churchyard soil had broken off
in one lump. In falling it had turned but half ov°r, and then
had slid down sideways, presenting to the climber a facet of
sward nearly perpendicular and a dozen feet high. Wedged
in between the jaggy top of this block and the wall of the
cliff was the corpse, showing that Wynne had been standing
by the fissure of the cliff at the moment when it widened
into a landslip.

Nor was that all ; between that part of the debris where
the corpse was perched and the sand below was one of those
long pools of sea-water edged by shingles, which are com-
mon features of that coast. It seemed that Destiny or Cir-
cumstance, more pitiless than Fate and Hell, determined
on our ruin, had forgotten nothing.

The contour of the cove ; the way in which the debris had
been thrown across the path we now must follow in order to
reach the only place of egress ; the way in which the hideous
spectacle of Wynne and the proof of his guilt had been

ill

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94 Aylwin

placed, so that to pass it without seeing it the passenger
must go bHndfold ; the brilHance of the moon, intensified by
being reflected from the sea; the fulness of the high tide,
and the swell, — all was complete! As I stood there with
clenched teeth, like a rat in a trap, a wind seemed to come
blowing through my soul, freezing and burning. I cursed
Superstition that was slaying us both. And I should have
cursed Heaven but for the touch of Winnie's clasping fin-
gers, silky and soft as when I first felt them as a child in the
churchyard.

"What has happened?" asked she looking into my face.

"Only a slip of my foot," I said, recovering my presence
of mind.

"But why do you turn back?"

"I cannot bring myself to part from you under tliis deli-
cious moon, Winnie, if you will stay a few minutes longer.
Let us go and sit on that very boulder where little Hal
proposed to you."

"But you want to go into the church," said Winifred, as
we moved back towards the boulder.

"No, I will leave that till the morning. I would leave
anything till the morning, to have a few minutes longer with
you on the sands. Try to imagine that we are children again,
and that I am not the despised rich man, but little Hal the
cripple."

Winifred's eyes, which had begun to look very troubled,
sparkled with delight.

"But," said she with a sigh, as we sat down on the boul-
der, "I'm afraid we sha'n't be able to stay long. See how
the tide is rising, and the sea is wild. The tides just now,
father says, come right up to the cliff in the cove, and once
locked in between Flinty Point and Needle Point there is
no escape."

"Yes, darling," I muttered to myself, drawing her to me
and burying my face in her bosom, "there is one escape, only
one."

For death seemed to me the only escape from a tragedy
far, far worse than death.

If she made me any answer I heard it not ; for, as I sat
there with closed eyes, schemes of escape fluttered before
me and were dismissed at the rate of a thousand a second.
A fiery photograph of the cove was burning within my
brain, my mind was absorbed in examining every cranny

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 95

and every protuberance in the semicircular wall of the cliff
there depicted; over and ove/ again I was examining that
])rain picture, though I knew every inch of it, and knew
there was not in the clifT-wall foothold for a squirrel.

The moon mocked me, and seemed to say:

"The blasting spectacle shining there on the other side of
that heap of earth must be passed, or Needle Point can
never be reached ; and unless it is reached instantly you
and she can never leave the cove."

"Then we will never leave it," I whispered to myself,
jumping up.

As I did so I found for the first time that her forehead
had been resting against my head ; for the furious rate at
which the wheels of thought were moving left no vital cur-
rent for the sense of touch, and my flesh was numbed.

"Something has happened," she said. "And why did you
keep whispermg 'yes, yes'? Whom were you whispering
to?"

The truth was that, in that dreadful trance my conscience
had been saying to me, "Have you a right to exercise your
power ov..: this girl by leading her like a lamb to death?"
and my love had replied, "Yes, ten thousand times ves."

"Winifred," I said, "I would die for you."

"Yes, Henry," said she, "I know it ; but what have we to
do with dealh now?"

"To save you from harm this flesh of mine would rejoice
at crucifixion; to save you from death this soul and body
of mine would rejoice to endure a thousand years of hell-
fire."

She turned pale, amazed at the delirium into which I had
passed.

"To save you from harm, dear, I would," said I, with a
quiet fierceness that scared her, "immolate the whole human
race — mothers, and fathers, and children; I would make a
hecatomb of them all to save this body of yours, this sweet
body, alive."

But I could not proceed. What I had meant to say was
this : —

'/A

Aylwin

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"And yet, Winnie, I have brought you here to his boul-
der to die!"

But I could not say it — my tongue rebelled and ivould not
say it.

Winifred was so full of health and enjoyment of life that,
courageous as she was, I felt that the prospect of certam
and imminent death must appal her; and to see the look of
terror break over her face confronting death was what I
could not bear. And yet the thing must be said. But at
this very moment, when my perplexity seemed direst, a
blessed thought came to me — a subterfuge holier than truth.
I knew the Cymric superstition about "the call from the
grave," for had not she herself just told me of it?

"I will turn Superstition, accursed Superstition itself, to
account," I muttered. "I will pretend that I am enmeshed
in a web of Fate, and doomed to die here myself. Then, if
I know my Winifred, she will, of her own free mind, die
with me."

"Winnie," I said, "I have to tell you something that 1
know must distress you sorely on my account — some-
thing that must wring your heart, dear, and yet it must
be told."

She turned her head sharply round with a look of alarm
that almost silenced nie, so pathetic was it. On that cou-
rageous face I had not seen alarm before, and this was alarm
for evil coming to m:^. It shook my heart — it shook my
heart so that I could not soeak.

"I felt," said she, "that something awful had happened.
And it affects yourself, Henry?"

"It r.iTects myself."

"And very deeply.''"

"Very deepl> , Winnie."

Then, pulling from my pocket the silver casket and the
parchment scroll, I said, "It has relation to these."

"That I felt," said she; "how could it be otherwise? Oh,
the miscreant! I curse him; I curse him!"

"Winifred," I said, "between me and this casket, and the
cross mentioned in this scroll, there is a mysterious link.
The cross is an amulet, an heirloom of dreadful potency
for good and ill. It has been disturbed ; it has been stolen
from my fathers grave, and there is but one way of setting
righ^ that disturbance. To avert unspeakable calamity from
falling upon two entire tamilies (the family of Aylwin and

I, t

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 97

that of her to whom this amulet was given) a sacrifice is
demanded."

"Plenry, you terrify me to death. What is the sacrifice?
Oh God! Oh God!"

"My father's son must die, Winnie."

She turned ashen pale, but. strugjj^Iing to be playful, she
said: "I fear that the family of Aylwin and the family of
somebody else must even take the calamity and bear it; for
I don't mean my Henry to die, let me assure both families
of that."

"Ah! but, Winnie, I am under a solemn oath and pledge
to bear this penalty; and we part to-night. That shriek
which so appalled you "

"Well, well, the shriek?" said she, in a frenzy of impa-
tience.

I made no answer, but she answered herself.

"That shriek was a call to you," she cried, and then burst
into a passion of tears. "It cannot be," she said. "It cannot
and shall not be; God is too good to suffer it." Then she
fixed her eyes upon me and sobbed: "Ah! it is trtie! I feel it
is all true! Yes, they are calling you, and that is why mv
soul answered the call. Ah, when I saw you just now lift
your head from my breast with a face grey and wizened as
an old man's — v/hcn I saw you look at me, I knew that
something dreadful had happened. Oh, I knew, I knew!
but I thought it had happened to me. The love and pity in
your eyes when you opened them upon me made me think
it was my trouble, and not yours, that disturbed you. And
now I know it is yours, and you are going to die! They are
calling you. Yes, you are going to let the tide drown you!
Oh, my love! my love!" and her grief was so acute that 1
knew not at first whether in this I had done well after all.

"Winifred," I said, "you must bear this, I have always
been ready to take death when it should come. I have at
least had one blessed time with Winifred on the sands —
Winifred the beloved and beautiful girl — one night, as the,
crown to the happy days that have been mine with Winifred
the beloved and beautiful child. And that night, as we
were walking by the sea, it seemed to me that sncli happi-
ness as was ours can come but once — that never again could
there be a night equal to that."

Smiles broke through her tears as she listened to me. I
had struck the right chord.

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Aylwin

"And / thouglit so too," she said. "It was indeed a night
of bliss. Indeed, indeed God has been good to us, Henry,"
and she fell into my arms again.

"And now, Winnie," I said, "we must kiss and part — part
for ever."

Yes, I had struck the right chord. As she lay in my arms
I felt her soft bosom moving with a little hysterical laugh
of derision when I said we must part. And then she rose
and sat beside me upon the boulder, looking calm and fear-
less at the tide as it got nearer and nearer to Needle Point.

"Yes, dear," I said, looking in the same direction, "you
nuist be going; see how the waves are surrounding the
Point. You must run, Winnie — you must run, and leave
me.

"Yes," said she, still gazing across to the Point, "as you
say, I must run, but not yet, dear; plenty of time yet;" and
she smiled to herself as she used to do in the old days, when
as a child she had made up her mind to do something.

Then without another word she took her shawl from her
shoulders, and pulled it out to see its length. And soon I
felt her fingers stealing my penknife from my waistcoat-
pocket, and saw her deftly cut up the shawl, strip after
strip, and weave it and knot it into a rope, and tie the rope
around her waist, and then she stooped to tie it around
me.

It was when I felt her warm breath about my neck as she
stooped over me to tie that rope, that love was really re-
vealed to me; it was then, and not till then, that all my pre-
vious love for Winifred seemed as a flicker of a rushlight to
Salaman's cloak of fire; and a feeling of bliss unutterable
came upon me, and the night air seemed full of music, and
the sky above seemed opening, as she whispered, "Henry,
Henry, Henry, in a few minutes you will be mine." But the
very confidence with which she spoke these simple words
startled me as from a dream. "Suppose," I thought, "sup-
pose my last drop of bliss with Winnie v;ere being tasted
now!" In a moment I felt like a coward. But then there
came r. loud crash and a thunder from behind the landslip.

"The settlement!" I cried. "The coming in of the tide
ha made the landslip settle!"

vVhen I sat with closed eyes examining my fiery photo-
giaph, I had calculated the "settlement" at the return of the
tide as being amoiig the chances of escape. But feeling

ght

)art.

•ms

lose
;ar-
lint.

'OU

Ithe
Lve

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 99

myself to be engaged in a duel with Circumstance (more
cruel than the fiends), I believed that the settlement wouki
come too late for us, or even if it did not come too late, it
might not hide awa)' the spectacle. The settlement had
come ; what had it done for us ? This I must know at once.

"Untie the rope," I said; "quick, untie the rope, there is
a settlement of the landslip."

"But what has the settlement to do with us?" said Winnie.

"It has to do with us, dear; untie the rope. It has much
to do with us, Winnie," I said; for now the determination
to save her life came on nie stronger than ever.

When the rope was untied I said, "Wait till I call," and I
ran around the corner of the debris. The great unright wall
of earth and sward, from which had stared the body of
Wynne, had fallen, hiding him and his crime together!

To return round the corner of the landslip and call Wini-
fred was the work of an instant, and, quick as she was in
answering my call, by the time she had reached me I had
thrown off my coat and boots.

"Now for ? run and a tussle with the waves, Winnie," I
said.

"Then we are not going to di2?"

"We are going to live. Run; in six more returns of a
wave like that there will be four feet of water at the Point."

"Come along. Snap," said Winifred, and she flew aiong
the sands without another word.

Ah, she could run! — faster than I could, with my bruised
heel! She was there first.

"Leap in, Winnie," I cried, "and struggle towards the
Point; it will save time. I shall be with you in a second."

Winifred plunged into the tide (Snap following with a
bark), and fought her way so bravely that my fear now was
lest she should be out of her depth before I could reach her,
and then, clad as she was, she would certainly drown. But
never for a moment did her good sense leave her. When
she was nearly waist-high she stopped and turned round,
gazing at me as I tore through the shallow water — gazing
with a wistful, curious look that he ' face would have worn
had we been playing.

To get round the Point and pull Winifred round was no
slight task, for the water was nearly up to my breast, and a
woman's clothing seems designed for drowning her. Any
other woman than Winifred would have been drowned, and

"*f

lit!

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III

.-.T-Brran

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Aylwin

would have drowned me with her. But in straits of this
kind the only safety lies in courage.

"What a night's adventures!" said Winifred, after we had
turned the Point, and were walking through the shallow
water towards the gangway.

We hurried towards the cottage as fast as our wet clothes
would permit. On reaching it we found the door unlocked,
and entered.

"Father has again gone to bed," said Winifred, "and left
no candle burning for me."

And without seeing her face, I knew by the tremor of
the hand I clasped that she was listening with shame for
the drunken snore that she would never hear again.

I lighted a match, which with a candle I found on a chair.

"Your father is no doubt sound asleep," I said; "you
will scarcely awake him to-night?"

"Oh dear, no," said Winifred. "Good-night. You look
quite ill. Ever since you lifted up your head from my breast,
when you were thinking so hard, you have looked quite ill."

Suddenly I remembered that I must be up and on the
sands betimes in the morning, to see whether the tide had
washed away the fallen earth so as to expose Wynne's body.
To prevent Winifred from seeing the stolen cross was now
the one important thing in the world.

I bade her good-night and walked towards home.

XI.

She was right: those few minutes of concentrated agony
had in truth made me ill. My wet clothes clinging round
my body began to chill me now, and as I crept into the
house and up-stairs to my room, my teeth were chattering
like castanets.

As I threw off my wet clothes and turned into bed, I was
partially forewarned by the throbbing at my temples, the
rolling fire at the back of my eyeballs, the thirsc in my
parched throat, that some kind of illness, some kind of fever,
was upon me. And no wonder, after such a night!

In that awful trance, when I had sat with my face buried
on Winifred's breast, not orily had the physiognoxny of the
cove, but every circumstance of our lives together, been

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics loi

photographed in my brain in on^ picture of fire. When,
after the concentrated a.c^ony of those first moments of ten-
sion, I looked up into Winifred's face, as though awakening
from a dream, my flesh had "appeared," she told me, "grey
and wizened, like the flesh of an old man." The mental
and physical effects of this were nDw gathering around me
and upon me.

From a painful slumber I awoke in about an hour with
red-h'^at at my brain and a sickening dread at my heart, "ft
is fever," thought I; "I am going to be ill; and what is there
to do in the morning at the ebb of the tide before Winifred
can go upon the sands ? I ought not to have come home at
all," I said. "Suppose illness were to seize me and prevent
my getting there?" The dreadful thought alone paralysed
me quite. Under it I lay as under a nightmare. I scarcely
dared try to get out of bed, lest I should find my fears well-
grounded. At last, cautiously and timorously, I put one
leg out of bed and then the other, till at length I felt the
little ridges of the carpet ; but my knees gave way, my head
swam, my stomach heaved with a deadly nausea, and I fell
like a log on the floor.

As I lay there I knew that I was indeed in the grasp of
fever. I nearly went crazed from terror at the thought that
in a few minutes I should perhaps lapse into unconscious-
ness and be unable to rise — unable to reach the sands in the
morning and seek for Wynne's body — unable even to send
some one there as a substitute to perform that task. But
then whom was I to send? whom could I entrust with such
a commission? I was under a pledge to my dead father
never to divulge the secret of the amulet save to my mother
and uncle. And, besides, if I would effectually save Winifred
from the harm I dreaded, the hideous sacrilege committed
by her father must be kept a secret from servants and towns-
people. Whom then could I send on this errand? At the
present moment, there were but four people in the world
who knew that the cross and casket had been placed in the
coffin — my mother, my uncle, myself, and now, alas! Wini-
fred. Mv mother was the one person who could do what
I wanted done. Her sagacity I knew ; her courage I knew.
But how could I — how dare I, broach such a matter to her?
I felt it would be sheer madness to do so, and yet, in my dire
strait, in my terror at the illness I was fighting with, I did it,
as I am going to tell.

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Aylwin

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By this time the noise of my fall had brought up the
servants. They lifted me into bed and proposed fetching;
our medical man. But I forbade them to do so, and said,
"I want to speak to my mother."

"She is herself unwell, sir," said the man to whom I spoke.

"I know," I replied. "Call her maid and tell her that my
business with my mother is very important, or I would not
have dreamed of disturbing her; but see her I must"

The man looked dubious, but observing my wet clothes
on a chair he seemed to think that something had happened,
and went to do my bidding.

In a very short time my mother entered the room. I felt
that my moments of consciousness were brief, and began
my story as soon as we were alone. I told her how the sud-
den dread that Wynne would steal the amulet had come
upon me; I told her how I had run down to the churchyard
and discovered the landslip; I. told her how, on seeing' the
landslip, I had descended the gangway and found the body
of Wynne, the amulet, the casket, and the written curse. But
I did not tell her that I had met Winifred on the sands. Ex-
cited as I was, I had the presence of mind not to tell her that.

As I proceeded with my narrative, with my mother sitting
by my bedside, a look of horror, then a look of loathing,
then a look of scorn, swept over her face. I knew that the
horror was of the sacrilege. I knew that the loathing and
the haughty scorn expressed her feelings toward the de-
spoiler — the father of her whose cause I might have to plead ;
and I began to wish from the bottom of my heart that I had
not taken her into my confidence. When I got to the find-
ing of Tom's body, and the look of terror stamped upon his
face, a new expression broke over hers — an expression of
triumphant hate that was fearful.

"Thank God at least for that!" she said. Then she mur-
mured, "But that does not atone."

Ah! how I regretted now that I had consulted her on a
subject where her proud imperious nature must be so deeply
disturbed. But it was too late to retreat.

"Henry," she said, "this is a shocking story you tell me.
After losing my husband this is the worst that could have
happened to me — the violation of his sacred tomb. Had
I only hearkened to my own misgiving about the miscreant!
Yet I wonder you did not wait till the morning before telling

me.

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 103

"Wait till the morning?" I said, forgetting that she did
not know what was at my heart.

"Doubtless the matter is important, Henry,'* said she.
"Still, the mischief is done, the hideous crime has been com-
mitted, and the news of it could have waited till morning."

"But, mother, unless my father's words are idle breath, it
is important, most important, that the amulet should again
be buried with him. I meant to go to the sands in the
morning and wait for the ebbing tide — I meant to take the
cross from the breast of the dead man, and to replace it in
my father's cofBn. That, mother, was what I meant to do.
But I am too ill to move; I feel that in an hour or so, or in a
few minutes, I shall be delirious. And then, mother! Oh,

then! " My mother looked astonished at my vehemence

upon the subject.

"Henry," she said, "I had no idea that you felt such an
interest in the matter; I have certainly misjudged your char-
acter entirely. And now, what do you want me to do?"

"Nobody," I said, "must know of the cross but ourselves.
I want you, mother, to do what / cannot do: I want you to
go on the sands and wait for the turn of the tide ; I want you
to take the cross from Wynne's breast, if the body should be
exposed, and secure it in secret until it can be replaced in
the coffin."

"/ do this, Henry?" said my mother, with a look of be-
wilderment at my earnestness. "Yet there is reason in what
you say, and grievous as the task would be for me, I must
consider it."

"But you will engage to do it, mother?"

"Really, Henry, you forget yourself, — you forget your
mother too. For me to go down on the sands and watch the
ebbing of the tide, and then defile myself by touching the
body of this wretch, is a task I naturally shrink from. Still
if, on thinking it over, I find it my duty to do it, it will not
be needful for me to enter into a compact with my son that
my duty to my dead husband shall be performed. Good-
night. I quite think you will be better in the morning. I
see no signs myself of the fever you seem to dread, and,
alas ! I am not, as you know, ignorant of the way in which a
fever begins."

She was going out of the room when I exclaimed, in sheer
desperation: "Mother, I have something else to say to you.
You remember the little girl, the httle blue-eyed girl.

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1 04 Aylwin

Wynne's daughter, who came here once, and you were so
kind to her, so gracious and so kind;" and I seized her hand
and covered it with kisses, for I was beside myself with
alarm lest my one hope should go.

The sudden little laugh of bitter scorn that came from my
mother's lips, the sudden spasm that shook her frame, the
sudden shadow as of night that swept across her features,
should at once have hushed my confession. But 1 went on:
my tongue would not stop now: I felt that my eloquence,
the eloquence of Winifred's danger, must conquer, must
soften even the hard pride of her race.

"And she has never forgotten your graciousness to her,
mother."

"Well?" said my mother, in a tone whose velvet softness
withered me.

"Well, mother, she is in all things the very opposite of
her father. This very night she told me" — and I was actu-
ally on the verge of repeating poor Winifred's prattle about
her resembling her mother, and not her father (for already
my brain had succumbed to the force of the oncoming fever,
and the catastrophe I was dreading made of me a frank and
confiding child).

"Well?" said my mother, in a voice softer and more vel-
vety still. "What did she tell you?"

That tone ought to have convinced me of the folly, the
worse than folly, of saying another word to her.

"But I can conquer her," I thought; "I can conquer her
yet. When she comes to know all the piteousness of Wini-
fred's case, she must yield."

"Yes, mother," I cried, "she is in all things the very oppo-
site of Tom. She has such a horror of sacrilege ; she has
such a dread of a crime and a curse like this; she has such a
superstitious belief in the power of a dead man's curse to
cHng to the delinquent's offspring, that, if she knew of what
her father had done, she would go mad — raving mad,
mo' licjf — she would indeed !" And I fell back on the pillow
exhausted.

"Well, Henry, and is tliis what you summoned me from
my bed to tell me — that Wynne's daughter will most likely
object to share the consequences of her father's crime? A
very natural objection, and I am really sorry for her; but
further than that I have certainly no affair with her."

"But, mother, the body of her father Hes beneath the

from

likelv
;? A
; but

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 105

debris on the shore; the ebbing tide may leave it exposed,
and tile poor girl, missing her father in the morning, will
seek him perhaps on the shore and find him — find him with
the proof of his crime on his breast, and know that she in-
herits the curse — my father's curse! Oh, think of that,
mother — think of it. And you only can prevent it."

For a few moments there was intense silence in the room.
I saw that my mother was reflecting. At last she «aid:

"You say that Wynne's daughter told you something to-
night. Where did you see her?"

"On the sands."

"At what hour?"

"At — at — at — about eleven, or twelve, or one o'clock."

I felt that I was g.-cting into a net, but was too ill to know
what I was doing. My mother paused for awhile; I waited
as the prisoner tried for his life waits when the jury have
retired to consult. I clutched the bed-clothes to stay the
trembling of my limbs. On a chair by my bedside was my
watch, which had been stopped by the sea-water. I saw
her take it up mechanically, look at it, and lay it down
again. In the agony of my suspense I yet observed her
smallest movement.

"And in what capacity am I to undertake this exped*
tion?" said she at length, in the same quiet tone, that soul-
quelling tone she always adopted when her passion was at
white heat. "Is it in the capacity of your father's wife exe-
cuting his wishes about the amulet? Or is it as the friend,
protectress and guardian of Miss Wynne?"

She sat down again by my bedside, and communed with
herself — sometimes fixing an abstracted gaze upon me,
sometimes looking across me at the very spot where in the
shadow beside my bed I had seemed to see the words of the
Psalmist's curse written in letters of fire. At last she said
quietly, "Henry, I will undertake this commission of yours."

"Dear mother!" I exclaimed, in my delight.

"I will undertake it," pursued my mother in the same
quiet tone, "on one condition."

"Any condition in the world, mother. There is nothing
I will not do, nothing I will not sacrifice or suffer, if you
will only aid me in saving this poor girl. Name your con-
dition, mother; you can name nothing I will not comply
with."

"I am not so sure of that, Henry. Let me be quite frank

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with you. I do not wish to entrap you into making an en-
gagement you cannot Iscep. You liave corroborated to-
night wliat 1 half suspected when 1 saw you talking to the
girl in the churchyard; there is a very vigorous flirtation
going on between you and this wretched man's daughter."

"Flirtation?" I said, and the incongruity of the word as
applied to such a passion as mine did not vex or wound me ;
it made me smile.

"Well, for her sake, I hope it is nothing more," said my
mother. "In view of the impassable gulf between her and
you, I do for her sake sincerely hope that it is nothing more
than a flirtation."

"Pardon me, mother," I said, "it was the word 'flirtation*
that made me smile."

"We will not haggle about words, Henry; give it what
name may please you, it is all the same to me. But flirta-
tions of this kind will sometimes grow serious, as the case of
Percy Aylwin and the Gypsy girl shows. Now, Henry, I
do not accuse you of entertaining the mad idea of really
marrying this girl, though such things, as you know, have
been in our family. But you are my only son, and I do love
you, Henry, whatever may be your opinion on that point ;
and, because I love you, I would rather, far rather, be a
lonely, childless woman in the world, I would far rather see
you dead on this floor, than see you marry Winifred
Wynne."

"Ah! mother, the cruelty of this family pride has always
been the curse of the Aylwins."

"It seems cruel to you now, because you are a boy, a
generous boy. You think it the romantic, poetic thing to
elevate a low girl to your own station — perhaps even to
show 5'our superiority to conventions by marrying the
daughter of the miscreant who has desecrated your own
father's tomb. But, Henry, I know the race to which you
and I belong. In five years' time — in three years, or perhaps
in two — you will thank me for this; you will say: 'My moth-
er's love was not cruel, but wise.' "

"Oh, mother!" I said, ''any condition but that."

"I see that you know what my condition is before I utter
it. If you will give me your word — and the word of an Ayl-
win is an oath — if you will give me your word that you will
never marry Winifred V/ynne, I will do as you desire. I
will myself go upon the sands in the morning, and if the

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 107

body has been exposed by the tide I will secure the evidence
of her father's guilt, in order to save the girl from the suffer-
ing which the knowledge of that guilt would cause her, as
you suppose."

"As 1 suppose!"

"Again I say, Henry, we will not quarrel about words."

I turned sick with despair.

*'And on no other terms, mother?"

•*On no other terms," said she.

"Oh, mercy, mother! mercy! you know not what you do.
I could not live without her; I should die without her."

"Better die then!" exclaimed my mother, with an expres-
sion of ineffable scorn, and losing for the first time her self-
possession; "better die than marry like that."

"She is my very life now, mother."

"Have I not said you had better die then? On no other
terms will I go on those sands. But I tell you frankly what
I think about this matter. I think that you absurdly ex-
aggerate the effect the knowledge of her father's crime will
have upon the girl."

"No, no; I do not. Mercy, dear mother, mercy! I am
your only child."

"That is the very reason why you, who may some day be
the heir of one of the first houses in England, must never
marry Winifred Wynne."

"But I don't want to be the heir of the Aylwins; I don't
want my uncle's property," I retorted. "Nor do I want the
other bauble prizes of the Aylwins."

"Providence has taken Frank, and says you must stand
where you stand," replied my mother solemnly. "You may
even some day, should Cyril be childless, succeed to the
earldom, and then what an alliance would this be!"

"Earldom! I'd not have it. I'd trample on the coronet.
Gingerbread! I'd trample it in the mud, if it were to sever
me from Winifred."

"You must succeed to it should Cyril Aylwin, who seems
disinclined to marry, die childless," said my mother, quietly ;
"and by that time you may perhaps have reached man's
estate."

"Pity, mother, pity!" I cried in despair, as I looked at the
strong woman who bore me.

"Pity upon whom? Have pity upon me, and upon the
family you now represent. As to all the fearful effects that

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the knowledge cf this sacrilege will have upon the girl, Ihal
is a subject ui)on which you must allow me to have my own
(Jl)iiiioii. (Jod tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, and pro-
vides thick skms for the canaille. What will concern her
chiefly, perhaps entirely, will be the loss of her father, and
she will soon know of that, whether she finds the body on the
sands or not. This kind of person is not nearly so sensitive
as my romantic Henry supposes. However, my condition
will not be departed from. If you consent to give up this
girl I will go on the sands; I will defile my fingers; I will
secure the stolen amulet at the ebb of the tide, should the
corpse become exposed. If you will not consent to give her
up, there is an end of the matter, and words are being
wasted between us."

"Give up Winifred, mother? That is not possible."

"Then there is no more to be said. We will not waste
our time in discussing impossibilities. y\nd I am really so
depressed and unwell that I must return to my room. I
hope to hear you are better in the morning, and I think you
will be. The excitement of this night and your anxiety
about the girl have unstrung your nerves, and you have
lost that courage and endurance which are yours by birth-
right."

And she left the room.

But she had no sooner gone than there came before my
eyes the insupportable picture of a slim figure walking along
the sands, stooping to look at some object among the debris,
standing aghast at the sight of her dead father with the
evidence of his hideous crime on his own breast; there came
the sound of a cry to "Henry" for help! I beat my head
against the bedstead till I was nearly stunned. I yelled
and bellowed like a maniac: "Mother, come back!"

When she returned to my bedside my eyes were glaring so
that my mother stood appalled, and (as she afterwards
owned to me) was nearly yielding her point.

"Mother," I said, "I consent to your condition: I will give
her up — but oh, save her! Let there be no dallying, let
there be no risk, mother. Let nothing prevent your going
upon the sands in the morning — early, quite early — ^and
every morning at the ebbing of the tide."

"I will keep my word," she said.

"You will use the fullest and best means to save her?"

"I will keep my word," she said, and left the room.

i ,

id, Ihal
uy own
nd pro-
em her
ler, and
y on the
cnsitive
)ndition
up this
; I will
uld the
rive her
being

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eally so
)om. I
ink you
anxiety
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birth-

ore my
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I debris,
nth the
re came
ly head
'. yelled

iring so
2rwards

/ill give
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r going
[y — ^and

err"

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 109

"I have saved her!" I cried over and over again, as I sank
back on my pillow. Then the delirium of fever came upon
nie, and 1 lay tossing as upon a sea of tire.

XII.

Weak in body and mind as an infant, I woke again to con-
sciousness. Through the open window the sunlight, with
that tender golden-yellow tone which comes with morning
in England, was pouring bvitween the curtains, an.1 illu-
minating the white counterpane. Then a soft breeze came
and slightly moved ihe curtains, and sent the light and
shadows about the bed and the opposite wall — a breeze
laden with the scent I always associated with Wynne's cot-
tage, the scent of geraniums. I raised myself on my elbows,
and gazed over the geraniums on the window-sill at the blue
sky, which was as free of clouds as though it were an
Italian one, save that a little feathery cloud of a palish gold
was slowly moving towards the west.

"It is shaped like a hand," I said dreamily, and then came
the picture of Winifred in the churchyard singing, and point-
ing to just such a golden cloud, and then came the picture
of Tom Wynne reeling towards us from the church-porch,
and then came everything in connection with him and with
her; everything down to the very last words which I had
spoken about her to my mother before unconsciousness
had come upon me. But what I did not know — what I was
now burning to know without delay — was what time had
passed since then.

I called out "Mother!" A nurse, who was sitting in the
room, but hidden from me by a large carved and corniced
oak wardrobe, sprang up and told me that she would go
and fetch my mother.

"Mother," I said, when she entered the room, "you've
been?"

"Yes," said she, taking a seat by my bedside, and mo-
tioning the nurse to leave us.

"And you were in time, mother!"

"More than in time," said she. "There was nothing to do.
I have realised, however, that your extraordinary and horri-

I lO

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* f;;!

il'

^^'^

Aylwin

hie story was true. It was not a fever-dream. The tomb
has been desecrated."

"But, mother, you went as you promised to the sands in
Church Cove, and you waited for the ebb of the tide?"

"I did."

"And you found "

"Nothing; no corpse exposed."

"And you went again the next day?"

"I did."

"And you found "

"Nothing."

"But how many days have passed, mother? How many
days have I been lying here?"

"Seven."

"And no sign of — of the body lo be seen?"

"None. The wretch must have been buried for ever be-
neath the great mass of the fallen cliff. I went no more."

"Oh, mother, you ..hould have gone every day. Think of
the frightful risk, mcther. On the very day after you ceased
your visits the body might have been turned up by the tide,
and she might have jone and seen it."

The picture was too terrible. 1 fell back exhausted. I
revived, however, in a somewhat calmer mood. When my
mother came into the room again, I returned at once to the
subject I reproached her bitterly for not having gone
every day. She listened to my reproaches in entire calm-
ness.

"It was idle to keep repeating these visits every day," said
she, "and I consider that I have fully performed my part of
the compact. I expect you to fulfil yours."

I remained silent, preparing for a deadly struggle with
the only being on earth I had ever really feared.

"I have fully kept my word, Henry," said she, "and have
done for you more than my duty to your father's memory
warranted me in doing."

"But, mother, you did not do all that you promised to do;
you did not prevent all risk of Winifred's finding it. She
may find it even yet."

"That is not likely now. I have performed mj part of
the compact, and I expect you to perform yours."

"You did not use all means to save my Winifred from
worse than death — from madness; you did not use all means
to save me from dying of self-murder or of a broken heart ;

•i mk

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 1 1 1

and the compact is broken. Whether or not I could have
kept my faith with you by breaking troth with her it is
you who have set me free. Mother," I said, fiercely, "in
such a compact it must be the letter of the bond."

"Mean subterfuge, unworthy of your descent," said my
mother quietly, but with one of those looks of hers that
used to frighten me once.

"No, no, mother; you have not kept the letter of the bond,
and I am free. You did not take the fullest and best means
to save Winifred. Your compact was to save her from the
risk I told you of. And, mother, mother, listen to me!" I
cried, in a state of crazy excitement now: "in the darkest
moment of my life, when I was prostrate and helpless, you
were pitiless as Pride. Listen, mother: Winifred Wynne
shall be mine. Not all the Aylwins that have ever eaten of
wheat and fattened the worms shall prevent that. She shall
be mine. I say, she shall be mine!"

"The daughter of the man who desecrated my husband's
tomb!"

"And my father's! That man's daughter shall be my
v/ife," I said, sittmg up in bed and looking into those eyes,
bright and proud, which had been wont to make all other
eyes blink and quail.

"Cursed by your father, and cursed by God "

"That curse — for what it may be worth — I take upon my
own head; the curse shall be mine. Even if I believed the
threat about the 'desolate places,' I would be there; if bare-
footed she had to beg from door to door, rest assured,
mother, that an Aylwin would hold the wallet — would leave
the whole Aylwin brood, their rank, their money, and their
stupid, vulgar British pride, to walk beside the beggar."

The look on my mother's face would have terrified most
people. It would have terrified me once. But in the frenzy
into which I had then passed, nothing would have made me
quail.

"Your services, mother, are no longer needed," I said.
"Wynne's corpse might have been washed up by the tide,
and your compact was to be there to see; but now, most
likely, it is hidden, not under loose fragments as I had
feaied, but under the great mass of earth, — hidden for
ever."

"But you forget," said my mother, "that the aniulot has to
be recovered."

'■i
i

nil !

112

Aylwin

■i> ¥n

p." I" i

m-^

"Mother," I said, in the state of wild suspiciousness con-
cerning her and her motives into which I had now passed,
"I know what your words imply, — that Winifred is not yet
out of danger; the evidence of the curse and the crime can
be dug up."

"I have no wish to harm the girl, Henry. You mistake
me.

"Then, mother, we must not mistake each other in this
matter," I said. "You have alluded to the word of an Ayl-
win. With me, as with the best of us, the word of an Aylwin
is an oath. Wynne's corpse is now hidden; the cross is now
hidden ; I give you the word of an Aylwin that the man who
digs up that corpse I will kill. I will not ^ onsider that he is
'in irresponsible agent of yours; I will kill him, and his blood
shall be upon the head of her who sends him, knowing,
to his death."

"And be hanged," said my mother.

"Perhaps. But after her father's crime has been exposed,
the first thing for me is-— to kill!"

"Why, boy, there's murder in your eyes!" said my mother,
taken off her guard.

"Oh, mother, mother, can you not see that no wolf with a
stolen lamb in its mouth was ever more pitilessly shot down
by the owner of that lamb than any hireling wolf of yours
would be shot down by me?"

"Boy, are you quite demented?"

"Listen, mother. To prevent Winifred from knowing that
her father had stolen that amulet, and so brought down
upon her the curse, I would have drowned her with myself
in the tide. We sat waiting for the tide to drown us, when
the settlement came at the last moment and buried it away
from her. Is it likely that I should hesitate to kill a clod-
hopper, or a score, if only to take my vengeance on you and
Fate? The homicide now will be yours."

She left, giving me a glance of defiance; but before our
eyes ended that conflict, I saw which of us had conquered.

"Hate is strong " I murmured, as I sank down on my
pillow, "and destiny is strong; but oh, Winniv., Winnie —
stronger than hate., and stronger than destiny and death, is
love. She knows, Winnie, that the life of the man who should
dig up that corpse would not be worth an hour's purchase ;
she knows, Winnie, that in the court of conscience she alone
*s answerable now for what may befall; and you are safe!

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 1 1 3

But poor mother! My poor dear mother, whom once I
loved so dearly, was it indeed you I strug;^led with just now?
Mother, mother, was it you?"

This interview retarded my recovery, and I had a serious
relapse.

The fever was a severe one. The symptoms were aggra-
vated by these most painful and trying interviews with my
mother, and by my increasing anxiety about the fate of
Winifred. Yet my vigorous constitution began to show
signs of conquering. Of Winifred I could learn nothing,
save what could be gleaned from the servants in attendance,
who seemed merely to have heard that Tom Wynne was
missing, that he had probably fallen drunk over the cliff
and been washed out to sea, and that his daughter was seek-
ing him everywhere. As the days passed by, however, and
no hint reached me thc^t the corpse had been found on the
sands, I concluded that, ;vhen the larger mass finally settled
on the night of the landslip, the corpse had fallen immedi-
ately beneath it, and was buried under the main mass. Yet,
from what I had seen of the corpse's position, in the rapid
view I had of it, perched on the upright mass of sward, I
did not understand how this could be.

And so anxiety after anxiety delayed my progress. Still,
on the whole, I felt that the body would not row be dis-
lodged by the tides, and that Winifred would at least be
spared a misery compared with which even her uncertainty
about her father's fate would be bearable. But now I longed
to be up and with her!

Dr. Mivart, who attended me, a young medical man of
much ability who had finished his medical education in
Paris, and had lately settled at Raxton, came every day with
great punctuality.

One day, however, he arrived three hojrs behind his usual
time, and seemed to think that some explanation was neces-
sary.

"I must apologise," said he, "for my unpunctuality to-
day, but the fact is that, at the very moment of starting, I
was delayed by one of the most interesting — one of the
most extraordinary cases that ever came within my experi-
ence, even at the Salpetriere Hospital, where we were familiar
with the most marvellous cases of hyster'.a — a seizure
brought on by terror in which the subject's countenance
mimics the appearance of the terrible object that has caused

111

114

Aylwin

it, A truly wonderful case! I have just written to Marini
about it." "

He seemed so much interested in his case, that he a'"oused
a certain interest in me, though at that time the word "hys-
teria" conveyed an impression to me of a very uncertain and
misty kind.

"Where did it occur?" I asked.

"Here in your own town," said Mivart. "A most extraor-
dinary case. My report will delight Marini, our great au-
thority, as you no doubt are aware, on catalepsy and cata-
leptic ecstasy."

"Strange that I have heard nothing of it!" I said.

"Oh!" replied Mivart, "it occurred only this moining.
Some fishermen passing below the old church were at-
tracted, first by a shriek of a peculiarly frightful and un-
earthly kind, and then by some unusual appearance on the
sands, at the spot where the last landslip took place."

My pulses stop])ed in a moment, and I clung to the back
of my chair.

"What — did — the fishermen see?" I gasped.

"The men landed," continued Mivart, — too much inter-
ested in the case to observe my emotion, — "and there they
found a dead body — the body of the missing organist here,
who had apparently fallen with the landslip. The face was
horribly distorted by terror, the skull shattered, and around
the neck was slung a valuable cross made of precious stones.
But the most interesting feature of the case is this, that in
front of the body, in a fit of a remarkable kind, squatted
his daughter — you may have seen her, an exceedingly pretty
girl lately come from Wales or somewhere — and on her face
was reflected and mimicked, in the most astonishing way,
the horrible expression on the face of the corpse, while the
fin; rs of her right hand were so closely locked around the
cross "

I felt that from my mouth there issued a voice not mine —
a long smothered shriek like that which had seemed to issue
from my mouth on that awful night when, looking out of
the window, I had heard the noise of the landslip. Then I felt
myself whispering "The Curse!" Then I knew no more.

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 1 1 5

it' !

XIII.

I HAD another dangerous relapse, and was delirious for two
days, I think. When I came to myself, the first words I
uttered to Mivart, whom I found with me, were inquiries
about Winifred. He was loth at first to revive the subject,
though he supposed that the effect of his narrative upon me
had arisen partly from my weakness and partly from what
he called his "sensational way" of telling the story. (My
mother had been very careful to drop no hint of the true
state of the case.) At last, however, Mivart told me all he
knew about Winifred, while I hia my face in my pillow and
listened.

"In the seizures (which are recurrent) the girl," he said,
"mimics the expression of terror on her father's face. Be-
tween the paroxysms she lapses into a strange kind of de-
mentia. It is as though her own mind had fled and the
body had been entered by the soul of a child. She will
then sing snatches of songs, sometimes in Welsh and some-
times in English, but with the strange, weird intonation of
a person in a dream. I have known something like this to
take place before, but it has been in seizures of an epileptic
kind, very unlike this case in their general characteristics.
The mental processes seem to have been completely ar-
rested by the shock, as the wheels of a watch or a musical
box are stopped if it falls."

He could tell me nothing about her, he said, nor what had
become of her since she had left his hands.

"The parish officer is taking his holiday," he added. "I
mean to inquire about her. I wish I could take her to Paris
to the Salpetriere, where Marini is treating such cases by
transmitting through magnetism the patient's seizure to a
healthy subject."

"Will she recover?"

"Without the Salprf-iere treatment?"

"Will she recover?" T asked, maddened beyond endurance
by all this cold-blooded pfofessional enthusiasm about a
case which to me was simply a case of life and death to
Winnie and me.

"She may. unless the seizures become too frequent for

Aylwin

the strength of the constitution. In that event, of course,
she would succumb. She is entirely harmless, let me tell
you."

He told me that she was at the cottage, where some good
soul was seeing after her.

"I will get up," I said, trying to rise.

"Get up!" said the doctor, astonished; "why do you want
to get up.'' You are not strong enough to sit in a chair yet."

This was, las! but too true, and my great object now was
to conceal my weakness; for I determined to get out as soon
as my legs could carry me, though I should drop down dead
on the road.

1 gathered from the doctor and the servants that the
sacrilege had now become publicly known, and had caused
much excitement. Wynne had evidently been slightly in-
toxicated when he committed it, and had taken no care to
conceal the proofs that the grave had been tampered with.
At the inquest the amulet had bee identified and claimed
by my mother.

It was some days before I got out, and then I went at
once to ihe cottage. It was a lovely evening as I walked
down Wilderness Road. It was not till I reached the little
garden-gate that I began fully to feel how weak my illness
had left me. The gate was half open, and I looked over
into the garden, which was already forlorn and deserted.
Some instinct told me she was not there. The little flower-
beds looked shaggy, grass-grown, and uncared for. In the
centre, among the geraniums, phlox-beds, and French mari-
golds, sat a dirty-white hen, clucking and calling a brood of
dirty-white chickens. The box-bordered gravelled paths,
which Wynne, in spite of his drunkenness, used to keep al-
ways so neat, were covered with leaves, shaken by the wind
from the trees surrounding the garden. One of the dark
green shutters was unfastened, and stood out at right-angles
from the wall — a token of desertion. On the diamond panes
of the upper windows, round which the long tendril 'j of
grape-vines were drooping, the gorgeous sunset was re-
flected, making the glass gleam as though a hundred little
fires were playing behind it. When I reached the door, the
paint of which seemed far more cracked with the sun than it
had looked a few weeks before, I found on knocking that
the cottage was empty. I did not linger, but went at once
into the town to inquire about her.

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 1 1 7

In place of giving me the information I was panting for,
the whole town came cackling round me with comments
on the organist and the sacrilege. I turned into the "Fish-
ing Smack" inn, a likely place to get what news was to be
had, and found the asthmatical old landlord haranguing
some fishermen who were drinking their ale on a settle.

"It's my b'lief," said the old man, "that Tom was arter
somethink else besides that air jewelled cross. I'm eighty-
five year old come next DuUingham fair, and I regleck as
well as if it wur yisterdy when resurrectionin'o' carpuses wur
carried on in the old churchyard jes' like one o'clock, and
the carpuses sent up to Lunnon reg'lar, and it's my 'pinion
as that wur part o' Tom's game, dang 'im; and if I'd a 'ad
my way arter the crouner's quest, he'd never a' bin buried
in the very churchyard as he went and blast-phemed."

"Where would you 'a buried 'im, then, Muster LantufT?"
asked a fisher-boy in a blue worsted jerkin.

"Buried 'im? why, at the cross-ruds, with a hedge-stake
through his guts, to be sure. If there's a penny agin' 'im on
that air slate" (pointing to a slate hung up on the door)
"there must be ten shillins, dang 'im."

"You blear-eyed, ignorant old donkey," I cried, coming
ruddenly upon him, "what do you suppose he could have
done with a dead body in these days ? Here's your wretched
ten shillings, — for which you'd sell all the corpses in Raxton
churchyard."

And I gave him half-a-sovereign, feeling, somehow, that I
was doing honour to Winifred.

"Thankee for the money. Mister Hal, anyhow," said the
old creature. "You was alius a liberal 'un, you was. But as
to what Tom could 'a dun with the carpus, I'm alius heer'd
that you may dew anythink with anythink, if you on'y send
it carriage-paid to Lunnon."

I left the house in anger and disgust. No tidings could I
get of Winifred in Raxton or Graylingham.

By this time I was thoroughly worn out, and obliged to go
home. My anxiety had become nearly insupportable. All
night I walked up and down my bedroom, like a caged
animal, cursing Superstition, cursing Convention, and all
the other follies that had combined to destroy her. It was
not till the next day that the true state of the case was made
known to me in ihe following manner: At the end of the
town lived the widow of Shales, the tailor. Winifred and I

•i^a

I
<

i«J^

;' i a

ii8

Aylwin

had often, in our childish days, stood and watched old
Shales, sitting cross-legged on a board in the window, at
his work, when Winifred would whisper to me, "How nice
it must be to be a tailor!"

As I passed this shop I now saw that on the same board
was sitting a person in whom Winifred had taken a still
stronger interest. This was a diminutive imitation of the
deceased, in the person of his hump-backed son, a little man
of about twenty-four, who might, as far as appearance went,
have been any age from twenty to eighty, with a pale
anxious face like his mother's. He was stitching at a coat
with, apparently, the same pair of scissors by his side that
used to delight us two children. Standing by the side of
the board, and looking on with a skilled intelligence shining
from her pale eyes, was Mrs. Shales, with an infant in her
arms — a wasted little grandchild wrapped in a plaid shawl,
apparently smoking a chibouque, but in reality sucking vig-
orously at the mouthpiece of a baby's bottle, which it was
clasping deftly with its pink little fingers.

Mrs. Shales beckoned me mysteriously into her shop, and
then into the little parlour behind it, where she used to sit
and watch the customers through the green muslin blind of
the glass door, like a spider in hs web. Young Shales who
left his board, followed us, and they then gave me some news
that at once decided my course of action. They told me
that one morning, after her frightful shock, Winifred had
encountered Shales, who was taking a holiday, and employ-
ing it in catching young crabs among the stones. Winifred,
who had a great liking for the humpbacked tailor, had come
up to him and talked in a dazed way. Shales, pitying her
condition, had inauced her to go home with him; and then
it had occurred to him to go and inquire at the Hall what
suggestion could be made concerning her at a house where
her father had been so well known. He could not see me;
I was ill in bed. He saw my mother, who at once suggested
that Winifred should be taken to Wales, to an aunt with
whom, according to Wynne, she had been living. (No one
but myself knew anything of Wynne's afifairs, and my
mother, though she had heard of the aunt, had not, as I then
believed, heard of her death.) She proposed that Shales him-
self should contrive to take Winifred to Wales. "She !iad
reasons," she said, "for wishing that Winifred should not be
handed over to the local parish officer." She offered to pay

ll^^^l

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 1 19

Shales liberally for going. /, however, was to know nothing
of this. Her object, of course, was to get Winifred out of
my way. The aunt's address was furnished by a Mr. Lacon
of Dullingham, an old friend of Wynne's, who also, it seems,
was ignorant of the aunt's death. This aunt, a sister of
Winifred's mother, named Davies, the widow of a sea cap-
tain who had once known better days, resided in an old cot-
tage between Bettws y Coed and Capel Curig. Shales had
found no difficulty in persuading Winifred to go with him,
for she had now sunk into a condition of dazed stupor, and
was very docile.

They started on their long journey across England by rail,
and everything went well until they got into Wales, when
Winifred's stupor seemed to be broken into by the familiar
scenery; her wits became alive again. Then an idea seemed
to seize her that she was pursued by me, as the messenger
bearing my dead father's curse. The appearance of any
young man bearing the remotest resemblance to me fright-
ened her. At last, before they reached Bettws y Coed, she
had escaped, and was lost among the woods. Shales had
made every effort to find her, but without avail, and was
compelled at last, by the demands of his business, to give up
the quest. He had returned on the previous evening, and
my mother had enjoined him not to tell me what h?H been
done, though she seemed much distressed at hearing that
Winnie was lost, and was about to send others into Wales
in order to find her, if possible. Shales, however, had de-
termined to tell me, as the matter, he said, lay upon his
conscience.

On getting this news I went straight home, ordered a
portmanteau to be packed, and placed in it all my ready
cash. Before starting I sat down to .write a letter to my
uncle. On hearing of my movements, my mother c^-me to
me in great agitation. In her eyes there was that haggard
expression which I thought I understood. Already she had
begun to feel that she and she alone was responsible for what-
soever calamities might fall upon the helpless deserted girl
she had sent away. Already she had begun to feel the pangs
of that remorse which afterwards stung her so cruelly that
not all Winnie's woes, nor all mine, were so dire as hers.
There are some natures that feel themselves responsible for
all the unforeseen, as well as for all the foreseen, conse-
quences of their acts. My mother was one of these. I rose

III

1 20

Aylwin

I :;

as she entered, offered her a seat, and then sat down again.
She inquired whither I was going.

"To North Wales," I said.

She stood aghast. But she now understood that grief
had made me a man.

"You are going," said she, "after the daughter of the
scoundrel who desecrated your father's tomb."

"I am going after the young lady whom I intend to
marry."

"Wynne's daughter marry my only son! Never!"

I proceeded with my letter.

"I will write to your uncle Aylwin at once. I will tell
him you are going to marry that miscreant's daughter, and
he will disinherit you."

"In that case, mother," I said, rising from the table, "I
need not trouble myself to finish my letter; for I was writ-
ing to him, telling him the same thing. Still, perhaps I had
better send mine too, ' I continued. "I should like at least
to remain on friendly terms with him, he is so good to me;"
and I resumed my seat at the writing-table.

"Henry," said my mother, after a second or two, "I think
you had better not write to your uncle; it might only make
matters worse. You had better leave it to me."

"Thank you, mother, the letter is finished," I replied as I
sealed it up, "and will be sent. Good-bye, dear," I said,
taking her hand and kissing it. "You knew not what you
did, and I know you did it for the best."

"When do you return, Henry?" asked she, in a conquered
and sad tone, that caused me many a pang to remember
afterwards.

"That is altogether uncertain," I answered. "I go to fol-
low Winifred. If I find her alive I shall marry her, if she
will marry me, unless permanent insanity prove a barrier.
If she is dead" — (I restrained myself from saying aloud what
I said to myself) — "I shall still follow her."

"The daughter of the scoundrel!" she murmured, her
lips grey with suppressed passion.

"Mother," I said, "let us not part in anger. The sword of
Fate is between us. When I was at school I made a certain
vow. The vow was that I would woo and win but one
woman upon earth — the daughter of the man who has since
violated my father's tomb. I have lately made a second
vow, that, until she is found, I shall devote my life to the

The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics 121

quest of Winifred Wynne. If you think that I am likely to
be deterred by fears of being disinherited by your family,
open and read my letter to my uncle. I have there told him
whom I intend to marry."

"Mad, mad boy!" said my mother. "Society will "

"You have once or twice before mentioned society,
mother. If I find Winifred Wynne, I shall assuredly marry
her, unless prevented by the one obstacle I have mentioned.
If I marry her I shall, if it so please me and her, take her
into society."

"Into society!" she replied, with ineffable scorn.

"And I shall say to society, 'Here is my wife.* "

"And when society asks who is your wife?"

"I shall reply, 'She is the daughter of the drunken or-
ganist who desecrated my father's tomb, though that con-
cerns you not: — her own specialty, as you see, is that she is
the flower of all girlhood.' "

"And when society rejects this earthly paragon?"

"Then I shall reject society."

"Reject society, boy!" said my mother. "Why, Cyril Ayl-
win himself, the bohemian painter who has done his best to
cheapen and vulgarise our name, is not a more reckless,
lawless leveller than you. And, good heavens! to him, and
perhaps afterwards to you, will come — the coronet."

And she left the room.

III.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

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III._WINIFRED'S DUKKERIPEN

I NEED not describe my journey to North Wales. On reach-
ing Bettws y Coed I turned into the hotel there — "The
Royal Oak" — famished; for, as fast as trains could carry me,
I had travelled right across England, leaving rest and meals
to chance. I found the hotel full of English painters, whom
the fine summer had attracted thither as usual. The land-
lord got me a bed in the village. A six-o'clock table d'hote
was going on when I arrived, and I joined it. Save myself,
the guests were, I think, landscape painters to a man. They
had been sketching in the neighbourhood. I thought I had
never met so genial and good-natured a set of men, and I
have since often wondered what they thought of me, who
met such courteous and friendly advances as they made
towards rne in a temper that must have seemed to them mo-
rose or churlish and stupid. Before the dinner was over
another tourist entered — a fresh-complexioned young Eng-
lishman in spectacles, who, sitting next to me, did at length,
by force of sheer good humour, contrive to get into a desul-
tory kind of conversation with me, and, as far as I remem-
ber, he talked well. He was not an artist, I fonnd, but an
amateur geologist and antiquary. His hobby was not like
that fatal ant'quarianism of my father's, which had worked
so much mischief, but the harmless quest of flint imple-
ments. His talk about his collection of flints, however, sent
my mind oflf to Flinty Point and the never-to-be-forgotten
flint-built walls of Raxton church. After dinner, coffee,
Hquors an \ tobacco being introduced into the dining-room,
I got up, intending to roam about outside the hotel till bed-
time; but the rain, I found, was falling in torrents. I was
compelled to return to my friend of the "flints." At that
moment one of the artists plunged into a comic song, and

126

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till

1* «i

by the ecstatic look of the company I knevv that a purga-
torial time was before me. I resigned myself to my fate.
Song followed song, until at last even my friend of the flints
struck up the ballad of Little Billee, whose lurubrious refrain
seemed to "set the table in a roar" ; but to ine it will always
be associated with sickening heart-ache.

As soon as the rain ceased I left the hotel and went to the
room in the little town the landlord had engaged for me.
There, with the roar in my ears of ♦^he mountain streams
(swollen by the rains), I went to bed and, strange to say,
slept.

Next morning I rose early, breakfasted at "The Royal
Oak" as soon as I could get attended to, and proceeded in
the direction in which, according to what I had gathered
from various sources, Mrs. Davies had lived. This led me
through a valley and by the side of a stream, whose cas-
cades I succeeded, after many efforts, in crossing. After a
while, however, I found that I had taken :\ . '•ong track, and
was soon walking in the contrary dircctio.i. I will not de-
scribe that long dreary walk in a drenching rain, with noth-
ing but the base of the mountain visible, all else being lost in
clouds and mist.

After blundering through marshy at^d boggy hillocks for
miles, I found myself at last in the locality indicated to me.
Arriving at a rcadside public-house, I entered it, and on in-
quiry was vexed to find that I had again been misdirected.
I slept there, and in the morning started again on my quest.
I was now a long way off my destination, but had at least
the satisfaction of knowing that I was on the right road at
last. In the afternoon I reached another waysid« inn, very
similar to that in which I had slept. I walkec^ np ?t once
to the landlord (a fat little Englishman who lo Ivd like a
Welshman, with black eyes and a head of hair lik^ . black
door-mat), a.id asked him if he had known Mrs. Daviei. He
said he had, but seemed anxious to assure me that he was
a Chester man and "not a Taflfy." She had died he told me,
not long since. But he had known more of her niece, Wini-
fred Wynne (or, as most people called her, Winifred
Davies); for, said he, "she was a queer kind of outdoor
creature that everybody knew, — as fond of the rain and mist
as sensible folk are fond of sunshine."

"Where did she live?" I inquired.

"You must have passed the very door," said the man.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

127

I- 1

And then he indicated a pretty little cottage by the roadside
which I had passed, not far from the lake. Mrs. Davies (he
told me) had lived there with her niece till the aunt died,

"Then you I'lew Winifred Wynne?" I said. There was to
me a romantic kind of interest about a man who had seen
Winifred in Wales.

"Knew her well," said he. "She was a Carnarvon gal —
tremenjus fond o' the sea — and a rare pretty gal she was."

"Pretty gal she is, you might ha' said, Mr. Blyth," a
woman's voice exclaimed from the settle beneath the win-
dow. "She's about in these parts at this very moment,
though Jim Burton says it's her ghose. But do ghoses eat
and drink? that's what / want to know. Besides, if any-
body's Hke to know the difTerence between Winnie Wynne
and Winnie Wynne's ghose, I should say it's most Hkely
me.

I turned round. A Gypsy girl, dressed in fine Gypsy cos-
tume, very dark but very handsome, was sitting on a settle
drinking from a pot of ale, and nursing an instrument of
the violin kind, which she was fondling as though it were
a baby. She was quite young, not above eighteen years of
age, slender, graceful — remarkably so, even for a Gypsy girl.
Her hair, which was not so much coal-black as blue-black,
was plaited in the old-fashioned Gypsy way, in little plaits
that looked almost as close as plaited straw, and as it was
of an unusually soft and fine texture for a Gypsy, the plaits
gave it a lustre quite unlike that which unguents can give.
As she sat there, one leg thrown over the other, displaying
a foot which, even in the heavy nailed boots, would have
put to shame the finest foot of the finest English lady I have
ever seen, I could discern that she was powerful and tall;
her bosom, gently rising and falling benea^^h the layers of
scarlet and yellow and blue handkerchiefs, which filled up
the space the loose-fitting gown of bright merino left open,
was of a breadth fully worthy of her height. A silk hand-
kerchief of deep blood-red colour was bound round her
head, not in the modern Gypsy fashion, but more like an
Oriental turban. From each ear v/as suspended a missive
ring of red gold. Round her beautiful, towering, tanned
neck was a thrice-twisted necklace of half-sovereigns and
amber and red coral. She looked me full in the face. Then
came a something in the girl's eyes the like of which I had
seen in no other Gypsy's eyes, though I had known well the

128

Aylwin

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Gypsies who used to camp near Rington Manor, not far
from Raxton, for my kinsman, Percy Aylwin, the poet, nad
lately fallen in love with Winnie's early friend, Rhona Bos-
well. It was not exactly an "uncanny" expression, yet it
suggested a world quite other than this. It was an expres-
sion such as one might expect to see in a "budding spae-
wife," or in a Roman Sibyl. And whose expression was it
that it now reminded me of? But the remarkable thing was
that this expression was intermittent; it came and went like
the shadows the fleeting clouds cast along the sunlit grass.
Then it was followed by a look of steady seH-reliance c.nd
daring. The last variation of expression was what now sud-
denly came into her eyes as she said, scrutinising me from
head to foot :

"Reia, you make a good git-up for a Romany-chal. Can
you rokkra Romanes? No, I see you can't. I should ha'
took you for the right sort. I should ha' begun the Romany
rokkerpen with you, only you ain't got the Romany glime in
your eyes. It's a pity he ain't got the Romany glime, ain't
it, Jim?"

She turned to a young Gypsy fellow who was sitting at the
other end of the settle, drinking also from a pot of ale, and
smoking a cutty pipe.

"Don't ax me about no mumply Gorgio's eyes," muttered
the man, striking the leather legging of his right leg with a
silver-headed whip he carried. "You're alius a-takin' intrust
in the Gorgios, and yet you're 'alius a-makin' believe as you
hate 'em."

"You say Winifred Wynne is back again?" I cried in an
eager voice.

"That's just what I did say, and I ain't deaf, my rei. How
she managed to get back here puzzles me, poor thing, for
she's jist for all the world like Rhona's daddy's daddy, Opi
Bozzell, what buried his wits in his dead wife's coffin. She's
even skeared at me."

"Why, you don't mean to say Winnie's back!" cried the
landlord. "To think that I shouldn't have heard about
Winnie Wynne bein' back. When did you see her, Sinfi?"

"I see her fust ever so many nights ago. I was comin'
down this road, when what do I see but a gal a-kickin' at
the door of Mrs. Davies'semp'y house, and a-sobbin' she was
jist fit to break her heart, and I sez to myself, as I looked
at her — 'Now, if it was possible for that 'ere gal to be Wini-

Winifrcd*s Dukkeripen i 29

fred V/ynne, she'd be Winifred Wynne, but as it ain*t possi-
ble for her to be Winifred Wynne, it ain't Winifred Wynne,
and any mumply Gorgie* as ain't Winifred Wynne may kick
and sob for a blue moon for all me.' "

"But it was Winnie Wynne, J s'pose?" said the landlord,
in a state now of great curiosity.

"It zvas Winnie Wynne," replied the Gypsy, handing her
companion her empty beer-pot, and pointing to the landlord
as a sign that the man was to pass it on to him to be refilled.
"Up I goes to her and I says, 'Why, sister, who's been
a-meddlin' with you? I'll tear the windpipe out o' anybody
wot's been a-meddlin' with you."

When the girl used the word "sister" a light broke in
upon me.

"Are you Sinfi Lovell?" I cried.

"That's jist my name, my rei; but as I said afore, I ain't
deaf. Jist let Jim pass my beer across and don't interrup'
me, please."

"Don't rile her, sir," whispered the landlord to me; "she's
got the real witch's eye, and can do you a mischief in a
twink, if she Hkes. She's a good sort, though, for all that."

"What are you two a-whisperin' about me?" said the girl
in a menacing tone that seemed to alarm the landlord.

"I was onV tellin' the gentleman not to rile you, because
you was a fightin' woman," said the man.

The Gypsy looked appeased and even gratified at the land-
lord's explanation.

"But what did Winnie Wynne do then, Sinfi?" asked the
landlord.

"She turns round sharp," said the Gypsy; "she looks at
me as skeared as the eyes of a hotchiwitchif as kno^v^ he's
a-bein' uncurled for the knife. 'Father!' she cries, and away
she bolts like a greyhound; and I know'd at onst as she wur
under a cuss. Now, you see, Mr. Blyth, that upset me, that
did, for Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em, Gorgio or
Gorgie, ever I liked. No offence, Mr. Blyth, it isn't your
fault you was born one; but," continued the girl, holding up
the foaming tankard and admiring the froth as it dropped
from the rim upon her slender brown hand on its way to the
floor, "Winnie Wynne was the only one on *em, Gorgio or

* Gorgio, a man who is not a Gypsy. Gorgie, a woman who is
not a Gypsy.
fHedgehog.

III I.

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130 Aylwin

Gorgie, ever I liked, and that upset me, that did, to see that
'ere beautiful cretur a-grinnin' and jabberin' under a cuss.
The Romanies is ^ittin' too fond by half o' the Gorgios,
and will soon be jist like mumply Gorgios themselves,
speckable and silly; but Gorgio or Gorgie, she was the only
one on 'em ever I liked, was Winnie Wynne; and when she
turned round on me like that, with them kind eyes o' hern
(such kind eyes / never seed afore) lookin' like that at me
(and I know'd she was under a cuss) — I tell you," she said,
still addressing the beer, "that it's made me fret 'ever since —
that's what it's done!"

About the truth of this last statement there could be no
doubt, for her face was twitching violently in her efforts to
keep down her emotion.

"And did you follow her?" said the landlord.

"Not I; what was the good?"

"But what (Wd you do, Sinfi?"

"What did I do? Well, don't you mind me comin* here
one night and buy in' a couple of blankets off you, and some
bread and meat and things?"

"In course I do, Sinfi, and you said you wanted them for
the vans."

The Gypsy smiled and said, "I knowed she was bound to
come back, so I pulls up the window and in I gets, and
then opens the door and off I comes to you, as bein' the
nearest neighbour, for the blankets and things, and I puts
'em in the house, and I leaves the door uncatched, ar.d I
hides myself behind the house, and, sure enough, bad she
comes, poor thing! I hears her kick, kick, kickin' at the
door, and then I hears her go in when she finds it give way.
So I waits a good while, till I think she's eat some o' the
vittles and gone to sleep maybe, and then round the house I
creeps, and in the door I peeps, and soon I hears her
breathin' soft, and then I shuts the door and goes away to
the place."*

"But why didn't you tell us all this, Sinfi?" asked the land-
lord. "My wife would ha' went and seen arter her, and we
wouldn't ha' touched a farthin' for the blankets and things,
not we, Sinfi, not we."

"Ah, you would, though," said the girl, " 'cause I'd ha'
made you take it. Winnie Wynne was the only one on 'em,
Gorgio or Gorgie, ever I liked, and nobody's got no right to
*Campinp-place.

Winifred's Dukkeripen 131

see arter her only me, and that's why I'm about here noiv, if
you must know; but nobody's got no right to see arter her
only me, and nobody sha'n't nuther. They might go and
skear her to run up the hills, and she might dash herself all
to flactions in no time."

"Don't take on so, Sinfi," said the landlord. "When they
are in that way they alius turns agin them as they was fond
on.

"Then you noticed as she was fond o' me, Mr. Blyth,"
said the girl with great earnestness.

"Of course she was fond of you, Sinfi; every body knows
that."

"Yes," said the girl, now much affected, "every body
knowed it, every body knowed as she was fond o' me. And
to see her look at me like that — it was a cruel sight, Mr.
Blyth, I can tell you. Such a look you never seed in all
your life, Mr. Blyth."

"Then 1 take it she's in the house now?" said the landlord.

"She goes prowlin' about all day among the hills, as if she
was a-lookin' for somebody; and she talks to somebody as
she calls the Tywysog o'r Niwl, an' I know that's Welsh for
the Trince o' the Mist' ; but back she comes at night. She
talks to herself a good deal ; and she sings to herself the
Welsh gillies what Mrs. Davies larnt her in a v'ice as seems
as if she wur a-singin' in her sleep, but it's very sweet to hear
it. Yesterday I crep' near her when she was a-sittin' down
lookin' at herself in that 'ere llyn where the water's so clear,
'Knockers' Llyn,' as they calls it, where her and me and
Rhona Boswell used to go. And I heard her say she was
'cussed by Henry's feyther.' And then I heard her talk to
somebody agin, as she called the Prince of the Mist; but it^S
herself as she's a-talkin' to all the while."

"Cursed by Henry's father! What curse could any su-
perstitious mystic call down upon the head of Winifred?
The heaven that would answer a call of that kind would be
a heaven for zanies and tom-fools!" I shouted, in a paroxysm
of rage against tho entire besotted human race. "That for
the curse!" I cried, snapping my fingers. "/ am Henry, and
I am come to share the curse, if there is one.'

"Young man," interposed the landlord, "such blasphee-
mous langige as that must not be spoke here ; I ain't a-goin'
to have my good beer turned to vinegar by blasphemin'
them as owns the thunder, I can tell you

I
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132

Aylwin

But the effect of my worHs upon the Gypsy was that of a
spark in a powder-mine.

"Henry?" she said, "Henry? are yoti the fine rei as she
used to talk about? Are you the fine cripple as she was so
fond on? Yes, Beng te tassa mandi if you ain't Henry his
very self."

"Don't," remonstrated the landlord, "don't meddle with
the gentleman, Sinfi. He ain't a cripple, as you can see."

"Well, cripple or no cripple, he's Henry. I half thought
it as soon as he began askin' about her. Now, my fine
Gorgio, what do you and your fine fcyther mean by cussin*
Winnie Wynne? You've jist about broke her heart among
ye. If you want to cuss you'd better cuss me;" and she
sprang up in an attitude that showed me at once that she
was a skilled boxer.

The male Gypsy rose and buttoned his coat over his waist-
coat. I thought he was going to attack me. Instead of this,
he said to the landlord:

"SJ-fs in for a set-to agin. She's sure to quarrel with me
if 1 interferes, so I'll just go on to the place and not spile
sport. Don't let her kill the chap, though, Mr. Blyth, if
you can anyways help it. Anyhows, / ain't a-goin' to be
called in for witness."

With that he left the house.

The Gypsy girl looked at m.e from head to foot, and
exclaimed:

"Lucky for you, my fine fellow, that I'm a duke's chavi,
an* musn't fight, else I'd pretty soon ask you outside and
settle this off in no time. But you'd better keep clear of
Mrs. Davies's cottage, I can tell you. Every stick in that
house is mine."

And, forgetting in her rage to pay her score, she picked
up her strange-looking musical instrument, put it into a
bag, and stalked out.

"She's got a queer temper of her own," said the landlord;
"but she ain't a bad sort for all that. She's clever, too: she's
the only woman in Wales, they say, as can play on the
crwth now since Mrs. Davie 3 is dead, what larnt her to
do it."

"The crwth?"

"The old ancient Welsh fiddle what can draw the Sperrits
o' Snowdon when it's played by a vargin. I dessay you've
often heard the sayin' The sperrits follow the crwth.' She

Winifred's Dukkeripen

133

makes a sight o' money by playin' on that fiddle in the
houses o' the gentlefolk, and she's as proud as the very
deuce. Ain't a bad sort, though, for all that."

I''

I *

II.

That I determined to cultivate the acquaintance of Sinfi
Lovell I need scarcely say. But my first purpose was to see
the cottage. The landlord showed me the way to it. He
warned me that a storm was coming on, but I did not let
that stay me. Masses of dark clouds were gathering, and
there was every sign of a heavy rain-storm as I went out
along the road in the direction indicated.

There was a damp boisterous wind, that seemed blowing
from all points of the compass at once, and in a minute I
was caught in a swirl of blinding rain. I took no heed of it,
however, but hurried along the lonely road till I reached
the cottage, which I knew at once was the one I sought.
It was picturesque, but had a deserted look.

It was not till I stood in front of the door that I began to
consider what I really intended to (^o in case I found her
there. A heedless impetuous desire l > see her — to get pos-
session of her — had brought me to Wales. But what was
to be my course of action if I found her I had never given
myself time to think.

If I could only clasp her in my arms and tell her I was
Henry, I felt that she must, even in madness, know me and
cling to me. I could not realise that any insanity could
estrange her from me if I could only get near her.

I put my thumb upon the old-fashioned latch, and found
that the door was not locked. It yielded to my touch, and
with a throbbing of every pulse, I pushed it open and
looked in.

In front of me rose a staircase, steep and narrow. There
was sufficient evening light to enable me to see up the stair-
case, and to distinguish two black bedroom doors, now
closed, on the landing. I stood on the wet threshold till
my nerves grew calmer. On my right and on my left the
doors of the two rooms on the ground floor were open. I
could see that the one on my left was stripped of furniture.

134

Aylwin

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I entered the room on my right — a low room of some con-
siderable length, with heavy beams across the ceiling, whicli
in that light seemed black. Two or three chairs and a tabic
were in it. There was a brisk fire, and over it a tea-kettle
of the kind much favoured by Gypsies, as I afterwards learnt.
There was no grate, but an open hearth, exactly like the
one in Wynne's cottage, where Winifred and I used to stand
in summer evenings to see the sky, and the stars twinkling
above the great sooty throat of the open chimney. I now
perceived the crwth and bow upon the table. Sinfi Lovell
had evidently been here since we parted. On the walls
hung a few of those highly coloured prints of Scriptural
subjects which, at one time, used to be seen in English farm-
houses, and are still the only works of art with the Welsh
peasants and a few well-to-do Welsh Gypsies who would
emulate Gorgio tastes.

On the left-hand side of the room was an arched recess,
in which, no doubt, had stood at one time a sideboard, or
some such piece of furniture. There was no occupant of the
room, however, and I grew calmer as I stood before the
fire, which drew from my wet clothes a cloud of steam. The
ruddy fingers of the fire-gleam playing upon the walls made
the colours of the pictures seem bright as the tints of stained
glass. The pathetic message of those flickering rays flowed
into my soul. The red mantle of the Prodigal Son^ in which
he was feeding the swine, shone as though it had been
soaked in sorrow and blood-red sin. The house was ap-
parently empty; the tension of my passion became for the
first time relaxed, and I passed into a strange mood of
pathos, dreamy, but yet acute, in which Winifred's fate, and
my mother's harshness, and my father's scarred breast,
seemed all a mingled mystery of reminiscent pain.

I had not stood more than a minute, however, when I was
startled into a very different mood. I thought I heard a
sobbing noise, which seemed to me to comr from some one
overhead, some one lying upon the boards of the room
above me. I was rooted to the spot where I stood, for the
sob seemed scarcely human, and yet it seemed to be hers. A
new feeling about Winifred's madness came upon me. I re-
called Mivart's horrible description of the mimicry. My
God! what was I about to see? I dared not turn and go up-
stairs; the fire and the singing tea-kettle were, at least, com-
panions. But something impelled me to take the bow and

Winifred's Dukkeripen

135

draw it across the crwth-strings. Presently I thought I
heard a door over-head softly open, and this was followed
by the almost inaudible creak of a light footstep descending
the stairs. With paralysed pulses I kept my eyes fixed on
the half-open door, in the certainty of seeing her pass along
the little passage leading from the staircase to the front door.
But as I heard the dear footsteps descend stair after stair
my horror left me, and I nearly began to sob myself. My
thoughts now were all for her safety. I slipped into the
recess, fearing to take her by surprise.

Soon the slim girlish figure passed into the room. And
as I saw her glide along I was stunned, as though I had not
expected to see her, as though I had not known the footstep
coming down the stairs.

With her eyes fixed on the fireplace, she brushed past me
without perceiving me, took a chair, and sat down in front
of the fire, her elbows resting on her knees, and her face
meditatively sunk between her hands. Her sobbing had
ceased, and unless my ears deceived me, had given place to
an ocidsional soft happy gurgle of childish laughter.

I stepped out from the shelter of my archway into the
middle of the room, dubious as to what course to pursue. I
thought that, on the whole, the movement that would startle
her least would be to slip quietly out of the room and out
of the house while she was in the reverie, then knock at the
door. She would arouse herself then, expecting to see some
one, and would not be so entirely taken by surprise at the
sight of my face as she v/ould have been at finding me,
without the slightest warning, standing behind her in the
room. I did this: I slipped out at the door and knocked,
gently at first, but got no answer; then a little louder — no
answer; then louder and louder, till at last I thundered at
the door in a state of growing alarm ; still no answer.

"She is stone deaf," I thought; and now I remembered
having noticed, as she brushed past me, a far-ofT gaze in
her eyes, such as some stone-deaf people show.

I re-entered the house. There she was, sitting immov-
ably before the fire, in the same reverie. I coughed and
hemmed, softly at first, then more loudly, finally with such
vigour that I ran the risk of damaging my throat, and still
there was no movement of the head bent over the fire and
resting in the palms of the hands. At last I made a step for
ward, then another, finally finding myself on the knitted

136

Aylwin

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cloth hearthrug beside her. I now had the full view of her
profile. That she should be still unconscious of my pres-
ence was unaccountable, for I stood at the end of the rug
gazing at her. Again I coughed and hemmed, but without
producing the smallest effect. Then I determined to ad-
dress her; but I thought it would be safer to do so as a
stranger than to announce myself at once as Henry.

"I beg pardon," I said, "but is there any one at home?"

No answer.

*'Is this the way to Capel Curig?"

No answer.

"Will you give me shelter?" I said; and finally I gave a
desperate "halloo."

My efforts had not produced the slightest effect. I was
now in a state of great agitation. That she was stone deaf
seemed evident. But was she not in some kind of fit, though
without the contortions of face Mivart had described to me
— contortions which haunted me as much as though I had
seen chem? I stooped down and gazed into her face. There
was now no terror there, nor even sorrow. I could see in
her eyes sparks of pleasure, as in the eyes of an infant when
it seems to see in the air pictures ' colours to which
our eyes are blind. Round about herd ind mouth a little
dimple was playing, exactly like the dimple that plays
around the mouth of a pleased child. This marvellous ex-
pression on her face recalled to me what Mivart had said
as to the form her dementia assumed between one paroxysm
and another.

"Thank God," thought I, "she's not in a fit; she's only
deaf."

Driven to desperation, however, I seized her shoulder and
shook it. This aroused her. She started up with violence,
at the same time overturning the chair upon which she had
been sitting. She stared at me wildly. The danger of what
I had done struck me now. A fortunate inspiration caused
me to say, "Tywysog o'r Niwl." Then there broke over her
face a sweet smile of childish pleasure. She made a grace-
ful curtsey, and said, "You've come at last; I was thinking
about you all the while."

Shall I ever forget her expression? Her eyes were alive
with light and pleasure. It was as though Winifred's soul
had fled or the soul of her childhood had re-entered and
taken possession of her body. But the witchery of her ex-

Winifred's Dukkeripen

137

pression no words can describe. Never had I seen her so
lovely as now. Often when a child 1 had seen the boatmen
on the sands look at us as we passed — seen them stay in the
midst of their toil, their dull faces brightening with admira-
tion, as though a bar of unexpected sunlight had fallen
across them. In the fields I had seen labourers, fitting at
their simple dinner under the hedges, stay their meal to look-
after the child, — so winning, dazzling, and strange was her
beauty. And when I had first met her again, a child no
longer, in the churchyard, my memory had accepted her at
once as fulfilling, and more than fulfilling, all her child-
hood's promise. But never had she looked so bewitching as
now — a poor mad girl who had lost her wits from terror.

For some time I could only keep murmuring: "More
lovely mad than sane!"

"As if I didn't know the Prince!" said she. "You who, in
fine weather or cloudy, wet or dry, are there on the hills to
meet me! As if I don't know the Prince of the Mist when I
see him! But how kind of you to come down here and see
poor Winnie, poor lonely Winnie, at home!"

She fetched p chair, placed it in front of the fire, pointing
to it with the same ravishingly childlike smile, indicating
that it was for me, and then, when she saw me mechr.nically
sit down, picked up her chair and came and sat close beside
me.

In a second she was lost in a reverie as profound as that
from which I had aroused her; and the only sound I h^ard
was the rain on the window and the fitful gusts of wind play-
ing around the cottage.

The wind having blown open the door, I got up to shut
it. Winifred rose too, and again taking hold of my hand,
she looked up into my face with a smile and said, "Don't
go; I'm so lonely — poor Winnie's so lonely."

As I held her hand in mine, and closed my other hand
over it, I murnmred to myself, "If God will only give her
to me like this — mad like this — I will be content."

"Dearest," I said, longing to put my arm round her waist
— to kiss her own passionless lips — but I dared not, lest I
might frighten her away, "I will not leave you. I will never
leave you. You shall never be lonely any more."

I closed the door, and we resumed our seats.

Can I put into words what passed within my soul as we
two sat by the fire, she holding my hand in her own — ^hold-

i )

'38

Aylwin

y i!-

^«i^"«:^

ing it as innocently as a child holds the hand of its mother?
Can 1 put into words my mingled feelings of love and pity
and wild grief, as I sat looking at her and murmuring, **Yes;
if God will only give her to me like tJiis, 1 will be content"?

"Prince," said she, "your eyes look very kind! — ^Sweet,
sweet eyes," she continued, looking at me. "The Prince of
the M!st has love-eyes," she repeated, as she placed the seats
before the fire again.

Then I heard her murmur, "Love-eyes! love-eyes! Henry's
love-eyes!" Then a terrible change came over her. She
sprang up and came and peered in my face. An indescrib-
able expression of terror overspread her features, her nostrils
expanded, her lips were drawn tightly over her teeth, her
eyes seemed starting from their sockets ; her throat suddenly
became fluted like the th oat of an aged woman, then veined
with knotted, cruel cords. Then she stood as transfixed,
and her face was mimicking that appalling look on her
father's face which I had seen in the moonlight. With a yell
of "Father!" she leapt from me. Then she rushed from the
house, and I could hear her run by the window, crying,
"Cursed, cursed, cursed by Henry's father!"

For an instanl the movement took away my breath ; but I
soon recovered and sprang after her to the door.

There, in the distance, I saw her in the ram, running
along the road. My first impulse was to follow her and run
her down. But luckily I considered the effect this might
have in increasing her terror, and stopped. She was soon
out of sight. I wandered about the road calling her name,
and calling on Heaven to have a little pity — a little mercy.

I DECIDED to return to the house, but found that I had lost
my way in the obscurity and pelting rain. For hours I wan-
dered about, without the slightest clue as to where I was. I
was literally soaked to the skin. Several times I fell into
holes in a morass, and was up to my hips in moss and mud
and water. Then I began to call out for assistance till I was
hoarse. I might as well have called out on an uninhabited
island.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

The nigh

1(1 the dark]

that

s grew so intense

could scarcely sec my hand when I held it up. Every star
in the heavens was hid away as by a thick pall. The dark-
ness was positively benumbing to the faculties, and added,
if possible, to the misery I was in on account of Winifred.
Suddenly my progress was arrested. I had fallen violently
against something. A human body, a woman! I thrust out
my hand and seized a woman's damp arm.

"Winifred," I cried, "it's Henry."

"I thought as much," said the voice of the Gypsy girl I
had met at the wayside inn, and she seized me by the throat
with a fearful grip. "You've been to the cottage and skeared
her away, and now she's seed you there she'll never come
back ; she'll wander about the hills till she drops down dead,
or falls over the brinks."

"Oh God!" I cried, as I struggled away from her. "Wini-
fred! Wmifred!"

There was silence between us then.

"You seem mighty fond on her, young man," said the
Gypsy at length, in a softened voice, "and you don't strike
out at me for grabbin' your throat."

"Winifred! Winifred!" I said, as I thought of her on the
hills in a night like this.

"You seem mighty fond on her, young man," repeated
the girl's voice in the darkness.

But I could afford no words for her, so cruelly was misery
lacerating me.

"Reia," said the Gypsy, "did I hurt your throat just now?
I hope I didn't; but you see she was the only one of 'em
ever I liked, Gorgio or Gorgie, 'cept Mrs. Davis, lad' or
wench. I know'd her as a child, and arterwards, when a fine
English lady, as poor as a church-mouse, tried to spile her,
a-makin' her a fine lady too, I thought she'd forget all about
me. But not she. I never once called at Mrs. Davies's
house with my crwth, as she taught me to play on, but out
Winnie would come with her bright eyes an' say, 'Oh, I'm
so glad!' She meant she was glad to see mc, bless the kind
heart on her. An' when I used to see her on the hills, she'd
come runnin' up to me, and she'd put her little hand in mine,
she would, an' chatter away, she would, as we went up and
up. An' one day, when she heard me callin' one o' the
Romany chies sister, she says, 'Is that your sister?' an' when
I says, 'No ; but the Romany chies calls each other sister,'^

Bf^

140 Aylwin

then says she, pretending not to know all about our Romany
ways, 'Sinfi, I'm vrry fond of you, may / call you sister?'
An' she had sich ways; and she's the only Gorgio or Gorgic,
'cept Mrs, Davies, as I ever liked, lad or wench."

T\e Gypsy's simple words came like a new message of
comfort and hope, but I could not speak.

"Young man," she continued, "are you there?" and she
put out her hand to feel for me.

I took hold of the hand. No words passed; none were
needed. Never had I known friendship before. After a
short time I said:

"What shall we do, Sinfi?"

"I shall wait a bit, till the stars are out," said she. "I
know they're a-comin' out by the feel o' the wind. Then I
shall walk up a path as Winnie knows. The sun'U be up
ready for me by tlie time I get to the part 1 wants to go to.
You know, young man, I must find her. She'll never come
back to the cottage no more, now she's been skeared away
from it."

"But I must accompany you," I said.

"No, no, you musn't do that," said the Gypsy; "she might
take fright and fall and be killed. Besides," said she, "Wini-
fred W>nne's under a cuss; it's bad luck to follow up any-
body under a ciiss."

"But you are following her," I said.

"Ah, but that's different. 'Gorgio cuss never touched
Romany,' as my mammy, as had the seein' eye, used to say."

"But," I exclaimed, vehemently, "I want to be cursed
with her. I have followed her to be cursed with her. I
mean to go with you."

"Young man," said she, "are there many o' your sort
among the Gorgios?"

"I don't know and I don't care," said I.

" 'Cause," said she, "that sayin' o' yourn is a fine sight
liker a Romany chi's nor a Romany chal's. It's the chies
as sticks to the chals, cuss or no cuss. T wish the chals 'ud
stick as close to the chies."

After much persuasion, however, I induced the Gypsy to
let me accompany her, promising to abide implicitly by her
instructions.

Even while we were talking the rain had ceased, and
patches of stars were shining brilliantly. Sinfi Lovell pro-
posed that we should go to the cottage, dry our clothes, and

Winifred's Dukkeripen

141

furnish ourselves with a day's provisions, which she said a
certain cupboard in the cottage would supply, and also with
her crwth, which she appeared to consider essential to the
success of the enterprise.

''She's fond o' the crwth," she said. "She alius wanted
Mrs. Davies to larn her to play it, but her aunt never would,
'cause when it's played by a maid on the hills to the Welsh
dukkerin' gillie,* the spirits o' Snowdon and the livin'
mullosf o' them as she's fond on will sometimes come and
show themselves, and she said Winnie wasn't at all th«. sort
o' gal to feel comfable with spirits moving round her. She
larnt me it, though. It's only when the crwth is played by a
maid on the hills that the spirits can follow it."

We did as Sinfi suggested, and afterwards began our
search. She proposed that we should go at once to Knock-
ers' Llyn, where she had seen Winifred the day before sit-
ting and talking to herself. We proceeded towards the spot.

IV.

The Gypsy girl was as lithe and active as Winifred herself,
and vastly more powerful. I was wasted by illness and fa-
tigue. Along the rough path we went, while the morning
gradually broke over the east. Great isles and continents of
clouds were rolled and swirled from peak to peak, from crag
to crag, across steaming valley and valley ; iron-grey at first,
then faintly tinged with rose, which grew warmer and richer
and deeper every moment.

"It's a-goin' to be one of the finest sunrises ever seed,"
said the Gypsy girl. "Dordi! the Gorgios come to see our
sunrises," she continued, with the pride of an owner of
Snowdon. "You know this is the only way to see the hills.
You may ride up the Llanberis side in a go-cart."

Racked with anxiety as I was, I found it a relief during
the ascent to listen to the Gypsy's talk about Winifred. She
gave me a string of reminiscences about her that enchained,
enchanted, and yet harrowed me. A strong friendship had
already sprung up between me and my companion; and I

*Dukkerin' gillie, incantation song.

fLivin' mullos, wraiths. , , ,

i I

■

142

Aylwin

was led to tell her about the cross and the curse, the viola-
tion of tny father's tomb and its disastrous consequences.
She was evidently much awed by the story.

"Well," said she, when I had stopped to look around, "it's
my belief as the cuss is a-workin' now, and'll have to spend
itself. If it could ha' spent itself on the feyther as did the
mischief, why all well an' good, but, you see, he's gone, an'
left it to spend itself on his chavi; jist the way with 'em
Gorgio feythers an' Romany daddies. It'll liave to spend
itself, though, that cuss will, I'm afeard."

"But," I said, "you don't mean that you think for her
father's crime she'll have to beg her bread in desolate
places."

"I do though, wusser luck," said the Gypsy solemnly,
stopping suddenly, and standing still as a statue.

"And this," I ejaculated, "is the hideous belief of all races
in all times! Monstrous if a lie — more monstrous if true!
Anyhow I'll find her. I'll traverse the earth till I find her.
I'll share her lot with her, whatever it may be, and wherever
it mav be in the world. If she's a beggar, I'll beg by her
side."'

"Right you are, brother," said the Gypsy, breaking in en-
thusiastically. "I likes to hear a man say that. You're liker
a Romany chi nor a Romany chal, the more I see of you.
What I says to our people is: — 'If the Romany dials would
only stick by the Romany chies as the Romany chies sticks
by the Romany chals, where 'ud the Gorgios be then? Why,
the Romanies would be the strongest people on the arth.'
But you see, reia, about this cuss — a cuss has to work itself
out, jist for all the world like the bite of a sap."*

Then she continued, with great earnestness, looking
across the kindling expanse of hill and valley before us:
"You know, the very dead things round us, — these here
peaks, an' rocks, an' lakes, an' mountains — ay, an' the woods
an' the sun an' the sky above our heads, — cusses us when
we do anythink wrong. You may see it by the way they
looks at you. Of course I mean when you do anythink
wrong accordin' tc us Romanies. I don't mean wrong ac-
cordin' to the Gorgios: they're two very dififerent kinds o'
wrongs."

"I don't see the difference," said I; "but tell me more
about Winifred."
*Sap, a snake.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

143

"Vuu clun'l see the difference?" said Sinfi. "Weil, tlieii, I
do. It's wrong to tell a lie to a Romany, ain't it? But is it
wrong to tell a lie to a Gorgio? Not a bit of it. And why?
'Cause most Gorgios is fools and zconts lies, an' that gives
the poor Romanies a chance. But this here cuss is a very
bad kind o' cuss. It's a dead man's cuss, and what's wuss,
him as is cussed is dead and out of the way, and so it has to
be worked out in the blood of his child. But when she's
done that, when she's worked it out of her blood, things'll
come right agin if the cross is put back agin on your
feyther's buzzum."

"When she has done what?" I said.

"Begged her bread in desolate places," said the Gypsy
girl, solemnly. "Then if the cross is put back agin on your
feyther's buzzum, I believe things'll all come right. It's bad
the cusser was your feyther though."

"But why?" I asked.

"There's nobody can't hurt you and them you're fond on
as your own breed can. As my poor mammy used to say,
'For good or for ill you must dig deep to bury your daddy.'
But you know, brother, the wust o' this job is that it's a
trushul as has been stole."

"Atrushul?"

"What you call a cross. There's nothing in the world so
strong for cussin' and blessin' as a trushul, unless the stars
shinin' in the river or the hand in the clouds is as strong.
Why, I tell you there's nothin' a trushul can't do, whether
it's curin' a man as is bit by a sap, or wipin' the very rain-
bow out o' the sky by jist layin' two sticks crossways, or
even curin' the cramp in your legs by jist settin' your shoes
crossways; there's nothin' for good or bad a trushul cani
do if it likes. Hav'n't you never heer'd o' the dukkeripen
o' the trushul shinin' in the sunset sky when the light o' the
sinkin' sun shoots up behind a bar o' clouds an' makes a
kind o' fiery cross? But to go and steal a trushul out of a
dead man's tomb — why, it's no wonder as the Wynnes is
cussed, feyther and child."

I could not have tolerated this prattle about Gypsy super-
stitions had I not observed that through it all the Gypsy
was on the qui vivc, looking for the traces of her path that
Winifred had unconsciously left behind her. Had the Gypsy
been following the trail with the silence of an American
Indian, she could not have worked more carefully than she

144 Aylwin

was now working while licr tongue went rrtlling on, I af-
terwards found this to be a eharaeteristic of her race, as 1
afterwards found that what is called the long sight of the
Gypsies (as displayed in the following of the patrin*) is not
long sight at all, but is the result of a peculiar faculty the
Gypsies have of observing more closely than Gorgios do
everything that meets their eyes in the woods and on the
hills and along the roads. When we reached the spot indi-
cated by the Gypsy as being Winifred's haunt, the ledge
where she was in the habit of coming for her imaginary
interviews with the "Prince of the Mist," we did not stay
there, but for a time still followed the path, which from this
point became rougher and rougher, alongside deep preci-
pices and chasms. Every now and then she would stop on
a ledge of rock, and, without staying her prattle for a mo-
ment, stoop down and examine the earth with eyes that
would not have missed the footprint of a rat. When I saw
her pause, as she sometimes would in the midst of her scru-
tiny, to gaze inquiringly down some gulf, which then seemed
awful to my inexperienced eyes, but which later on in the
day, when I came to see the tremendous chasms of that
side of Snowdon, seemed i'isignificant enough, the circula-
tion of my blood would seem to stop, and then rush again
through my body more violently than before. And while
the "patrin-chase" went on, and the morning grew brighter
and brighter, the Gypsy's lithe, cat-like tread never faltered.
The rise and fall of her bosom were as regular and as calm
as in the public-house. Such agility and such staying
power in a woman astonished me. Finding no trace of
Winnie, we returned to the little plateau by Knockers'
Llyn.

"This is the place," said the Gypsy ; it used to be called in
old times the haunted llyn, because when you sings the Welsh
dukkerin' gillie here or plays it on a crwth, the Knock-
ers answers it. I dare say you've heard o' what the Gorgios
call the triple echo o' Llyn Ddw'r Arddu. Well, it's some-
thin' like that, only bein' done by the knockin' sperrits, it's
grander and don't come 'cept when they hears the Welsh
dukkerin' gillie. Now% you must hide yourself somewheres
while I go and touch the crwth in her favourite place. I
think she'll come to that. I wish though I hadn't brought
ye," she continued, looking at me meditatively; "you're a lit-
♦Trail.

laf

Winifred's Dukkeripen 145

tie winded a-ready, and we ain't begun the roug-h climbin* at
?!1. Up to this 'ere pool Winnie and me and Rhona Boswell
used to climb when we was children ; it needed longer legs
nor ourn to get further up, and you're winded a-ready. If
she should come on you suddent, she's liker than not to run
for a mile or more up that path where we've just been and
then to jump down one of them chasms you've just seed.
But if she does pop on ye, don't you try to grab her, what-
ever you do; leave me alone for that. You ain't got strength
enough to grab a hare; you ought to be in bed. Besides,
she won't be skeared at me. But," she continued, turning
round to look at the vast circuit of peaks stretching away
as far as the eye could reach, "we shall have to ketch her
to-day somehow. She'll never go back to the cottage where
you went and skeared her; and if she don't have a fall, she'll
run about these here hills till she drops. We shall have to
ketch her to-day somehow. I'm in hopes she'll come to the
sound of my crwth, she's so uncommon fond on it; and if
she don't come in the f^esh, p'rhaps her livin' mullo will
come, and that'll show she's alive."

She placed me in a crevice overlooking the small lake, or
pool, which on the opposite side was enclosed in a gorge,
opening only by a cleft to the east. Then she unburdened
herself of a wallet containing the breakfast, saying, "When
I come back we'll fall to and breakfiss." She then, as
though she were following the trail, made a circuit of the pool
and disappeared through the gorge. All around the pool
there was a narrow ragged ledge leading to this eastern
opening. I stood concealed in my crevice and looked at the
peaks, or rather at the vast masses of billowy vapours en-
veloping them, as they sometimes boiled and sometimes
blazed, shaking — when the sun struck one and then another
— from brilliant amethyst to vermilion, shot occasionally
with purple, or gold, or blue.

A radiance now came pouring through the eastern open-
ing down the gorge or cwm itself, and soon the light vapours
floating about the pool were turned to sailing gauzes, all
quivering with different dyes, as though a rainbow had be-
come torn from the sky and woven into gossamer hangings
and set adrift.

Fatigue was beginning to numb my senses and to con-
quer my brain. The acutcncss of my mental anguisli had
consumed itself in its own intense fires. The idea of Wini-

146

Avlwin

fred's danger became more remote. The mist-pageants of
the morning seemed somehow to emanate from Winnie.

"No one is worthy to haunt such a scene as this," I mur-
nuixeu, sinking against the rock, "but Winifred — so beauti-
ful of body and pure of souk Would that I were indeed her
'Prince of the Mist,' and that we could die here together
with Sinfi's strains in our cars."

Then I felt coming over me strange influences which
afterwards became familiar to me — influences which I can
only call the spells of Snowdon. They were far more in-
tense than those strange, sweet, wild, mesmeric throbs which
I used to feel in Graylingham Wood, and which my an-
cestress, Fenella Stanley, seems also to have known, but
they were akin to them. Then came the sound of Sinfi's
crwth and song, and in the distance repetitions of it, as
though the spirits of Snowdon were, in very truth, joining
in a chorus.

At once a marvellous change came over me. I seemed
to be listening to my ancestress, Fenella Stanley, and not to
Sinfi Lovell. I was hearing that strain which in my child-
hood I had so often tried to imagine, and it was conjuring
up the morning sylphs of the mountain air and all the
"flower-sprites" and "sunshine elves" of Snowdon.

I SHOOK ofif the spell when the music ceased; then I began
to wonder why the Gypsy did not return. I was now faint
and almost famished for want of food. I opened the Gypsy's
wallet. There was the substantial and tempting breakfast
she had brought from the cottage cupboard — cold beef and
bread, and ale. I spread the breakfast on the ground.

Scarcely had I done so when a figure appeared at the
opening of the gorge and caught the ruddy flood of light.
It was Winifred, bare-headed. I knew it was she, and I
waited in breathless suspense, crouching close up into the
crevice, dreading lest she should see me and be frightened
away. She stood in the eastern cleft of the gorge against
the sun for fully half a minute, look'ng around as a stag
might look that was trying to give the hunters the slip.

Winifred's Dukkcripen

147

"She has seen the Gypsy," I thought, "and been scared
by her." Then she came down and ghded along the side of
the pool. At first she did not see me, though she stood op-
posite and stopped, while the opalescent vapours from the
pool steamed around her, and she shone as through a glitter-
ing veil, her eyes flashing like sapphires. The palpitation
of my heart choked me; I dared not stir, I dared not speak;
the slightest movement or the slightest sound might cause
her to start away. There was she whom I had travelled and
toiled to find — there was she, so close to me, and yet must
I let her pass and perhaps lose her after all — for ever?

Where was the Gypsy girl? I was in an agony of desire to
see her or hear her crwth, and yet her approach might
frighten Winifred to her destruction.

But Winifred, who had now seen me, did not bound away
with that heart-quelling yell of hers which I had dreaded.
No, I perceived to my astonishment that the flash of the
eyes was not of alarm, but of greeting to me — pleasure at
seeing me! She came close to the water, and then I saw a
smile on her face through the misty film — a flash of shining
teeth.

"May I come?" she said.

"Yes, Winifred," I gasped, scarcely knowing what I said
in my surprise and joy.

She came slipping round the pool, and in a few seconds
was by my side. Her clothes were saturated with last
night's rain, but though she looked very cold, she did not
shiver, a proof that she had not lain down on the hills, but
had walked about during the whole night. There was no
wildness of the maniac stare — there was no idiotic stare. But
oh, the witchery of the gaze!

If one could imagine the look on the face of a wanderer
from the cloud-palaces of the sylphs, or the gaze in the eyes
of a statue newly animated by the passion of the sculptor
who had fashioned it, or the smile on the face of a wondering
Eve just created upon the earth — any one of these expres-
sions would, perhaps, give the idea of that on Winifred's face
as she stood there.

"May I sit down. Prince?" said she.

"Yes, Winnie," I replied; "I've been waiting for you."

"Been waiting for poor Winnie?" she said, her eyes spark-
ling anew with pleasure ; and she sat down close by my side,
gazing hungrily at the food — her hands resting on her lap.

148

Aylwin

I laid my hand upon one of hers; it was so damp and cold
that it made me shudder.

"Why, Winifred," I said, "how cold you arcT'

"The hills are so cold!" said she, "so cold when the stars
go out, and the red streaks begin to come."

"May I warm your hands in mine, Winnie?" I said, lung-
ing to clasp the dear fingers, but trembling lest anything I
might say or do should bring about a repetition of last
night'j catastrophe.

"'Will you. Prince?" said she. "How very, very kind!"
and in a moment the hand was between mine.

Remembering that it was through looking into my eyes
that she recognised me in the cottage, I now avoided look-
ing straight into hers. All this time she kept gazing wist-
fully at the food spread out on the ground.

"Are you hungry, Winifred?" I said.

"Oh yes ; so hungry !" said she, shaking her head in a sad,
meditative way. "Poor Winifred is so hungry and cold and
lonely 1"

"Will you breakfast with the Prince of the Mist, Wini-
fred?"

"Oh, may I, Prince?" she asked, her face beaming with
delight.

"To be sure you may, Winnie. You may always break-
fast with the Prince of the Mist if you like.

"Always? Always?" she repeated.

"Yes, Winnie," I said, as I handed her some bread and
meat, which she devoured ravenously.

"Yes, dear Winnie," I continued, handing her a foaming
horn of Sinfi's c-le, to which she did as full justice as she
was doing to the bread and meat. "Yes, I want you to
breakfast with me and dine with me always."

"Do you mean lizr with you, Prince?" she asked, looking
me dreamily in the face — "live with you behind the white
mist? Is this our wedding breakfast, Prince?"

"Yes, Winnie."

Then her eyes wandered down over her dress, and she
said: "Ah! how strange I did not notice my green fairy
kirtle before. And I declare I never felt till this moment
the wreath of gold leaves round my forehead. Do they rhine
much in the sun?"

"They quite dazzle me, Winnie," I said, arching my hand
above my eyes, as if to protect them from the glare.

Winifred's Dukkeripen

149

"Do you have a nice fire there when it's very cold?*' she
said.

"Yes, Winifred," I said.

She then sank into silence, while I kept plyin.'^ her with
food.

After she had appeased her hunger she sat looking into
the pool, quite unconscious, apparently, of my presence by
her side, and lost in a reverie similar to that which I had
seen at the cottage.

The form her dementia had taken was unlike anything
that I had ever conceived. ^Madness seemed too coarse a
word to denote so wonderful and fascinating a mental de-
rangement. Mivart's comparison to a musical box recurred
to me, and seemed most apt. She was in a waking dream.
The peril lay in breaking through that dream and bringing
her real life before her. There was a certain cogency of
dreamland in all she said and did. And I found that she sank
into silent reverie simply because she waited, like a person in
sleep, for the current of her thoughts to be directed and
dictated by external phenomena. As she sat there gazing
in the pool, her hand gradually warming between my two
hands, I felt that never when sane, never in her most be-
witching moments, had she been so lovable as she was now.
This new kind of spell she exercised over me it would be
impossible to describe. But it sprang from the expression
on her face of that absolute freedom from all self-conscious
ness which is the great charm in children, combined with
the grace and beauty of her own matchless girlhood. A de-
sire to embrace her, to crush her to my breast, seized me
like a frenzy.

"Winifred," I said, "you are very cold."

But she was now insensible to sound. I knew from ex-
perience now that I must shake her to bring her back to
consciousness, for evidently, in her fits of reverie, the sounds
falling upon her ear were not conveyed to the brain at all.

I shook her gently, and said, "The Prince of the Mist."

She started back to life. My idea had been a happy one.
My words had at once sent her thoughts into <^he right di-
rection for me.

"Pardon me, Prince," said she, smiling; "I had forgotten
that you were here."

"Winifred, I've warmed this hand, now give mo the
other."

\''m

'■s-i

150 Aylwin

She stretched her other hand across lier breast and gave
it to me. This brought her entire body close to nie, and I
said, "Winnie, you arc cold all over. Won't you let the
Prince of the Mist put his arms round you and warm you?"

"Oh, I should like it so nuich," she saic\ "J kit are you
warm, Prince? are you really warm? — your mist is mostly
very cold."

"Quite warm, Winifred," I said, as with my heart swelling
in my breast, and with eyelids closing over my eyes from
very joy, I drew her softly upon my breast once more.

"Yes — yes," I murmured, as the tears gushed from my
eyes and dropped upon the soft hair that I was kissing. "If
God would but let me have her tliiis! I ask for nothing bet-
ter than to possess a maniac."

As we sat locked in each other's arms the head of Sinfi
appeared round the eastern clitif of the gorge where I had
first seen Winifred. The Gypsy had evidently been watch-
ing us from there. I perceived that she was signalling to
me that I was not to grasp Winifred. Then I saw Sinfi sud-
denly and excitedly point to the sky over the rock beneath
which we sat. I looked up. The upper sky above us was
now clear of morning mist, and right over our heads, Wini-
fred's and mine, there hung a little morning cloud like a
feather of flickering rosy gold. I looked again towards the
corner of jutting rock, but Sinfi's head had disappeared.

"Dear Prince," said Winifred, "how delightfully warm
you are! How kind of you! But are not your arms a little
too tight, dear Prince? Poor Winnie cannot breathe. And

this thump, tliutnp, thump, like a — like a — fire-engine

ahr

Too late I knew what my folly had done. The turbulent
action of my heart had had a sympathetic effect upon hers.
It seemed as if her senses, if not her mind, had remembered
another occasion, when, as she was lying in my arms, the
beating of my heart had disturbed her. In one lightning-
flash her real life and all its tragedy broke mercilessly in
upon her. The idea of the "Prince of the Mist" fled. She
started up and away from me. The awful mimicry of her
father's expression spreal over her face. With a yell of
"Fy Nhad," and then a yell of "Father!" she darted round
the pool, and then, bounding up the ruggec' path like a
chamois, disappeared behind a corner of jutting rock.

At the same moment the head of the Gypsy girl reap-

Winifred's Dukkcripcn

I CI

came

pcared round the eastern cleft oi tlie gorge. Sinfi
quickly up to me and whispered, "Don't follow."

"I will," I said.

"No, you won't," said she, seizing my wrist with a grip of
iron. "If you do she's done for. Do you know where she
is running to? A couple of furlongs up that path there's
another that branches off on the right; it ain't more nor a
futt-an-a-half wide along a prccipuss more than a hundred
futt deep. She knows it well. She'll make for that. The
cuss is on her wuss nor ever, judgin' from the gurn and the
flash of her teeth."

I waited for two or three seconds in the wildest impa-
tience.

"Let's follow her now," I said.

"No, no," she whispered, "not yet, 'less you want to see
her tumble down the cliff." After a few minutes Sinfi and
I went up the main pathway. Winnie seemed to have
slackened her pace when 5he was out of sight, for we saw
her just turning away on the riglit at the point indicated
by Sinfi. "Give her time to get along that path," said she,
"and then she'll be all right.

In a state of agonized suspense I stood there waiting.
At last I said:

"I must go after her. We shall lose her — I know we shall
lose her."

Sinfi demurred a moment, then acceded to my wish, and
we went up the main pathway and peered round the corner
of the jutting rock where Winifred had last been visible.
There, along a ragged shelf bordering a yawning chasm — a
shelf that seemed to me scarce wide enough for a human foot
— Winifred was running and balancing herself as surely as
a bird over the abyss.

"Mind she doesn't turn round sharp and see you," said the
Gypsy. "If she does she'll lose her head and over she'll fall!"

I crouched and gazed at Winifred as she glided along
towards a vast mountain of vapour that was rolling over the
chasm close to her. She stood and looked into the floating
mass for a moment, and then passed into it and was lost
from view.

-fit

152

Aylwin

VI.

1^ ■ >•;

"Now I can follow her," said Sinfi; "but you mustn't try to
come along here. Wait till I come back. I suppose you've
given her all the breakfiss. Give me a drop of brandy out
c' your flask."

I gave her some brandy and took a long draught of the
Durning liquor myself, for I was fainting.

''I shall go with you," I said.

"Dordi," said the Gypsy, "how quickly you'd be a-layin'
at the bottom there!" and she pointed down into the gulf
at our feet.

"I shall go with you." 1 said.

"No, you won't," said the Gypsy doggedly; "'cause /
sha'n't go. I shall git round and meet her. I know where we
shall strike across her slot. She'll be makin' for Llanberis."

"I let her escape," I moaned. "I had her in my arms
once; but you signalled to me not to grip her."

"If you had ha' grabbed her," said the Gypsy, "she'd ha'
pulled you along like a feather — she's so mad-strong. You
go back to the llyn."

The Gypsy girl passed along the shelf and was soon lost in
the veil of vapour.

I returned to the llyn and threw myself down upon the
ground, for my legs sank under me, but the dizziness of
fatigue softened the efifect of my distress. The rocks and
peaks were swinging round my head. Soon I found the
Gypsy bending over me.

"I can't find her," said she. "We had best make haste
and strike across her path as she makes for Llanberis. I
have a notion as she's sure to do that."

As fast as we could scramble along those rugged tracks
we made our way to the point where the Gypsy expected
that Winifred would pass. We remained for hours, beating
about in all directions in search of her, — Sinfi every now
and then touching her crwth with the bow, — but without
any result.

"It's my belief slie's gone straight down to Llanberis,"
said Sinfi; "and vvc'd best lose no time, but go there too."

We went right to the top of the mountain and rested for

Winifred's Dukkeripen

153

a little time on y Wy(Jdfa,Sinfi taking sonic bread and cheese
and ale in the cabin there. Then wc descended the other
side. I had not sense then to notice the sunset-glories, the
peaks of mountains melting into a sky of rose and hght-
green, over which a phalanx of fiery clouds was filing; and
yet I see it all now as I write, and I hear what I did not seem
to hear then, the musical chant of a Welsh guide ahead of
us, who was conducting a party of happy tourists to
Llanberis.

When we reached the village, we spent hours in making
searches and inquiries, but could find no trace of her. (Jh,
the appalling thought of Winifred wandering abo ': nil night
famishing on the hills! I went to the inn which jii : Dointed
out to me, while she went in quest of some Cypsy friends,
who, she said, were stopping in the neighbourhoud. She
promised to come to me early in the morning, in order that
we might renew our search at break of day.

When I turned into bed after supper I said to myself:
"There will be no sleep for me this night." But I was mis-
taken. So great was my fatigue that sleep came upon me
with a strength that was sudden and irresistible; when the
servant came to call me at sunrise, I felt as though I had
just gone to bed. It was, no doubt, this sound sleep, and
entire respite from the tension of mind I had undergone,
which saved me from another serious illness.

I found the Gypsy already waiting for me below, prepar-
ing for the labours before her by making a hearty meal on
salt beef and ale.

"Reia," said she, pointing to the beef with her knife, "we
sha'n't get bite nor sup, 'cept what we carry, either inside or
out, for twelve hours, — perhaps not for twenty-four. Be-
fore I give up this slot there ain't a path, nor a hill, nor a
rock, nor a valley, nor a precipuss as won't feel my fut.
Come! set to."

I took the Gypsy's advice, made as hearty a breakfast as I
could, and we left Llanberis in the light of morning. It was
not till we had reached and passed a place called Gwastad-
nant Gate that the path along which wc went became really
wild and difficult. The Gypsy seemed to know every inch
of the country.

We reached a beautiful lake, where Sinfi stopped, and I
began to question her as to what was to be our route.

"Winnie know'd," said she, "some Welsh folk as fish in

Ei K

154 Aylwin

tliis Vtc lake. SIic niiglit ha' called 'cm to mind, poor thing,
and come off here. I'm a-goin' to ask about her."

Sinfi's inquiries here — her inquiries everywhere that day —
ended in nothing but blank and cruel disappointment.

Remembering that Winifred's very earliest childhood was
passed near Carnarvon, I proposed to the Gypsy that we
should go thither at once.

After sleeping again at Llanberis, we went to Carnarvon,
but soon returned to the other side of Snowdon, for at Car-
narvon we could find no trace of her.

"Oh, Sinfi/' I said, as we stood watching the peculiar
bright yellow trout in Lake Ogwen, "she is starving — starv-
ing on the hills — while millions of people are eating, gorg-
ing, V asting food. I shall go mad!"

S fi looked at me mournfully and said :

"It's a bad job, reia, but if poor Winnie Wynne's a-
starvin' it ain'l the fault o' them as happens to ha' got the
full belly. There ain't a Romany in Wales, nor there ain't
a Gorgio nuther, as wouldn't give Winnie a crust, if wonst
we could find her."

"To think of this great, rich world," I exclaimed (to my-
self, not to the Gypsy), "choke-full of harvest, bursting with
grain, while famishing on the hills for a mouthful is she —
the one!"

"Reia," said Sinfi, with much solemnity, "the world's full
o' vittles; what's wanted is jist a hand as can put the vittles
and the mouths where they ought to be — cluss togither.
That's what the hungry Romany says when he snares a hare
or a rabbit."

We walked on. After a while Sinfi said: "A Romany
knows more o' these here kinds o' tilings, reia, than a Gor-
gio does. It's my belief as Winnie Wynne ain't a-starvin' on
the hills; she ain't got to starve; she's on'y got to beg her
bread. She'll have to do that, of course; but beggin' ain't
so bad as starvin', after all! There's some as begs for the
love on it. Videy does."

I knew by this time that it was useless to battle against
Sinfi's conviction that the curse would have to be literally
fulfilled, so I kept silence. While she was speaking I was
suddenly struck by a thought that ought to have come
before.

"Sinfi," I said, "didn't you know an English lady named
Dalrymple, who lodged with Mrs. Davies for some years?"

Winifred's Dukkeripen

^55

"Yis," said Sinfi, "and I did think o' her. She went t(^ hve
at Carnarvon. But supposin' that Winnie had gone to the
Enghsli lady — supposin' tliat she know'd where to find her —
the lady 'ud never ha' let her go away, she was so fond on
her. It was Miss Dalrymple as sp'ilt Winnie, a-givin' her
lady-notions."

However, I determined lO see Miss Dalrymple, and
started alone for Carnarvon at once. By making inquiries
at the Carnarvon post office I found Miss Dalrymple, a pale-
faced, careworn lady of extraordinary culture, who evinced
the greatest affection for Winifred. She had seen nothing
of her, and was much distressed at the fragments of Win\-
fred's story which I thought it well to give her. When she
bade me good-bye, she said: "I know something of your
family. I know your mother and aunt. The sweet girl you
are seeking is in my judgment one of the most gifted young
women living. Her education, as you may be aware, she
owes mainly to me. But she took to every kind of intel-
lectual pursuit by instinct. Reared in a poor Welsh cottage
as she was, there is, I believe, almost no place in society
that she is not fitted to fill."

On leaving Carnarvon I returned to Sinfi Lovell.

But why should I weary the reader by a detailed acount
of my wanderings and searchings, with my strange guide
that day, and the next, and the next? Why should 1 burthen
him with the mental agcnies I suffered as Sinfi and I, dur-
ing the following days, explored the country for miles and
miles — right away beyond the Cross Foxes, as far as Dol-
gelley and the region of Cader Idris ? At last, one evening,
when I and Rhona Boswell and some of her family were
walking down Snowdon towards Llanberis, Sinfi announced
her onviction that Winifred was no longer in the Snowdon
region at all, perhaps not even in Wales at all.

"You mean, I suppose, that she is dead," I said.

"Dead?" said Sinfi, the mysterious sibylline look return-
ing immediately to her face that had just seemed so frank
and simple. "She ain't got to die; she's only got to beg.
But I shall ha' to leave you now. I can't do you no more
good. And besides, my daddy's goin' into the Eastern Coun-
ties with the Welsh ponies, and so is Jasper Bozzell and
Rhona. Videy and me are goin' too, in course."

With deep regret and dismay I felt that I must part from
her. How well I remember that evening ! I feel as now I

:'i\

'56

Aylwin

il ^

\fl

iff if;

f if ;
I)..' I

write the delicious summer breeze of Snovvdon blowing on
my forehead. The sky, which for some time had been grow-
ing very rich, grew at every moment rarer in colour, and
glassed itself in the tarns which shone with an enjoyment of
the beauty like the magic mirrors of Snowdonian spirits.
The loveliness indeed was so bewitching that one or two
of the Gypsies — a race who are, as I had already noticed,
among the few uncultivated people that show a susceptibil-
ity to the beauties of nature — gave a long sigh of pleasure,
and lingered at the llyn of the triple echo, to see how the
soft iridescent opal brightened and shifted into sapphire and
orange, and then into green and gold. As a small requital
of her valuable services I offered her what money I had
about me, and promised to send as much more as she might
require as soon as I reached the hotel at Dolgelley, where at
the moment my portmanteau was lying in the landlord's
charge.

"Me take money for tryin' to find my sister, Winnie
Wynne?" said Sinfi, in astonishment more than in anger.
"Seein' reia, as I'd jist sell everythink I've got to find her, I
should Hke to know how many gold balansers [sovereigns]
'ud pay me. No, reia, Winnie Wynne ain't in Wales at all,
else I'd never give up this patrin-chase. So fare ye well;"
and she held out her hand, which I grasped, reluctant to let
it go.

"Fare ye well, reia," she repeated, as she walked swiftly
away; 'T wonder whether we shall ever meet agin."

"Indeed, I hope so," I said.

Her sister Videy, who with Rhona Boswell was walking
near us, was present at the parting — a bright-eyed, dark-
skinned little girl, a head shorter than Sinfi. I saw Videy's
eyes glisten greedily at sight of the gold, and, after we had
parted, I was not at all surprised, though I knew her father,
Panuel Lovell, a frequenter of Raxton fairs, to be a man of
means, when she came back and said, with a coquettish
smile:

"Give the bright balansers to Lady Sinfi's poor sister, my
rei; give the balansers to the poor Gypsy, my rei."

Rhona, however, instead of joining Videy in the prayer
for backsheesh, ran down the path in the footsteps of Sinfi.

What money I had about me I was carrying loose in my
waistcoat pocket, and I pulled it out, gold and silver to-
gether. I picked out the sovereigns (five) and gave them to

Winifred's Dukkcripen 157

her, retaining half-a-sovereign and the silver for my use
before returning to the hotel at Dolgelley. Videy took the
sovereigns and then pointed, with a dazzling smile, to the
half-sovereign, saying, "Give Lady Sinfi's poor sister the
posh balanser [half-sovereign], my rei."

I gave her the half-sovereign, when she immediately
pointed to a half-crown in my hand, and said: "Give the poor
Gypsy the posh-courna, my rei."

So grateful was I to the very name of Lovell, that I was
hesitating whether to do this, when I was suddenly aware
of the presence of Sinfi, who had returned with Rhona. In
a moment Videy's wrist was in a grip I had become famih'ar
with, and the money fell to the ground. Sinfi pointed to
the money and said some words in Romany. Videy stooped
and picked the coins up in evident alarm. Sinfi then said
some more words in Romany, whereupon Videy held out
the money to me. I felt it best to receive it, though Sinfi
never once looked at me; and I could not tell what ex-
pression her own honest face wore, whether of deadly anger
or mortal shame. The two sisters walked off in silence to-
gether, while Rhona set up a kind of war-dance behind
them, and the three went down the path.

In a few minutes Sinfi again returned and, pointing in
great excitement to the sunset sky, cried: "Look, look! The
Dukkeripen of the trushul."* And, indeed, the sunset was
now making a spectacle such as might have aroused a
spasm of admiration in the most prosaic breast. As I looked
at it and then turned to look at Sinfi's noble features, illu-
mined and spiritualized by a light that seemed more than
earthly, a new feeling came upon me as though y Wyddfa
and the clouds were joining in a prophecy of hope.

VII.

After losing Sinfi I hired some men to assist me In my
search. Day after day did we continue the quest ; but .10 trace
of Winifred could be found. The universal opinion was
that she had taken sudden alarm at something, lost her foot-
hold and fallen down a precipice, as so many unfortunate
tourists had done in North Wales.
♦Cross.

158

Aylwin

!*: <

One (lav I and one gf my men met, on a spnr of the
Cllydcr, the tourist of tlie Hint inii)lenients willi whom 1 hail
conversed at Jiettws y Coed, lie was alone, j^eulo^ising or
else searching for flint implements on the hills. Evidently
my haggard appearance startled him. But when he learnt
what was my trouble he became deeply interested. He told
me that the day after our meeting at the ** Royal Oak,"
Bettws y Coed, he had met a wild-looking girl as he was
using his geologist's '^ammcr on the mountains. She was
bare-headed, and had taken fright at him, and had run
madly in the direction of Uic most dangerous chasm on the
range; he had pursued her, hoping to save her from destruc-
tion, but lost sight of her close to the chasm's brink. The
expression on his face told me what his thoughts were as
to her fate. He accompanied me to the chasm. It was in-
deed a dreadful place. We got to the bottom by a winding
path, and searched till dusk among the rocks and torrents,
finding nothing. But I felt that in wild and ragged pits like
those, covered here and there with rough and shaggy brush-
wood, and full of wild cascades and deep pools, a body might
well be concealed till doomsday.

My kind-hearted companion accompanied me for some
miles, and did his best to dispel my gloom by his lively
and intelligent talk. We parted at Pen y Gwryd. I never
saw him again. I never knew his name. Should these lines
ever come beneath his eyes he will know that though the
great ocean of human life rolls between his life-vessel and
mine, I have not forgotten how and where once we touched.

But how could I rest? Though Hope herself was laughing
my hopes to scorn, how could I rest? How could I cease
to search?

Bitter as it was to wander about the hills teasing my soul
by delusions which other people must fain smile at, it would
have been more bitter still to accept for certainty the in-
tolerable truth that Winifred had died famished, or that her
beloved body was a mangled corpse at the bottom of a cliff.
If the reader does not understand this, it is because he finds
it impossible to understand a sorrow like mine. I refused
to return to Raxton, and took Mrs. Davies's cottage, which
was unoccupied, and lived there throughout the autumn.
Every day, wet or dry, I used to sally out on the Snow-
donian range, just as though she had been lost but yester-
day, making inquiries, bribing the good-natured Welsh

Winifred's Dukkeripen

J59

cease

pcoi)lc (who needed no bribing) to aid me in a search whicli
to them must have seemed monomaniacal.

Tlie peasants and farmers ail knew me. "Sut mac dy
g^alon ?'' (How is tliy heart ?) they would say in the beautiful
Welsh phrase as I met them. '*llow is thy heart, indeed!"
I would sigh as I went on my way.

Before I went to Wales in search of Winifred I had never
set foot in the Principality. Before I left it there was scarcely
a Welshman who knew more familiarly than I every mile
of the Snowdonian countt^. Never a trace of Winifred
could I find.

At the end of the autumn I left the cottage and removed
to Pen y gwryd, as a comparatively easy point from which
I could reach the mountain tarn where I had breakfasted
with Winifred on that morning. Afterwards I took up my
abode at a fishing inn, and here I scayed the winter through
— scarcely hoping tu find her now, yet chained to Snowdon.
After my labours during the day, scrambling among slippery
boulders and rugged rocks, crossing swollen torrent-beds,
amid rain and ice and snow and mist such as frightened
away the Welsh themselves — after thus wandering, because
I could not leave the region, it was a comfort to me to turn
into the low, black-beamed room of the fishing-inn, with
drying hams, flitches of bacon, and fishing-rods for deco-
rations, and hear the simple-hearted Cymric folk talking,
sometimes in Welsh, sometimes in English, but always with
that kindness and that courtesy which go to make the poetry
of Welsh common life.

Meantime, I had, as I need scarcely say, spared neither
trouble nor expense in advertising for information about
Winifred in the Welsh and the West of England newspapers.
I offered rewards for her discovery, and the result was
merely that I was pestered by letters from people (some of
them tourists of education) suggesting traces and clues of so
wild, and often of so fantastic a kind, that I arrived at the
conviction that of all man's faculties his imagination is the
most lawless, and at the same time the most powerful. It
was perfectly inconceivable to me that the writers of some
of these letters were not themselves demented, so wild or
so fanciful were the clues they suggested. Yet, when I came
to meet them and talk with them (as I sometimes did), I
found these correspondents to be of the ordinary prosaic
British type. All my efforts were to no purpose.

II ir

1::

illljl

i6o

Ayl'»vin

Among my longer journeys from the fisliing-inn, the most
frequent were those to Holly well, near I'lint, to the Well of
St. Winifred — the reader need not be told why. lie will
recollect how little Winnie, while plying me with strawber-
ries, had sagely recommended the holy water of this famous
well as a "cure for crutches." She had actually brought mc
some of it in a lemonade bottle when she returned to Raxton
after her first absence, and had insisted on rubbing my
ankle with it. She had, as I afterwards learnt from her
father, importuned and at last rnduced her aunt (evidently
a good-natured and worthy soul) to take her to visit a rela-
tive in Holywell, a journey of many miles, for the purpose
of bringing home with her a bottle of the holy water. When-
ever any ascent of the gangways had proved to be more suc-
cessful than usual, Winifred had attributed the good luck to
the virtues contained in her lemonade bottle. Ah! super-
stition seemed pretty enough then.

At first in the forlorn hope that memory might have at-
tracted her thither, and afterwards because there was a
fascination for me in the well on account of its association
with her, my pilgrimages to Holywell were as frequent as
those of any of the afflicted devotees of the olden time,
whose crutches left behind testified to the genuineness of the
Saint's pretensions. Into that well Winifred's innocent
young eyes had gazed — gazed in the full belief that the holy
water would cure me — gazed in the full belief that the crim-
son stains made by the byssus on the stones were stains left
by her martyr-namesake's blood. Where had she stood
when she came and looked into the well and the rivulet? On
what exact spot had rested her feet — those little rosy feet
that on the sea-sands used to flash through the receding
foam as she chased the ebbing billows to amuse me, while I
sat between my crutches in the cove looking on? It was, I
found, possible to gaze in that water till it seemed alive with
her- — seemed to hold the reflection of the little face which
years ago peered anxiously into it for the behoof of the
crippled child-lover pining for her at Raxton. and unable to
"get up or down the gangways without her."

Holywell grew to have a fascination for me, and in the
following spring I left the fishing-inn beneath Snowdon,
and took rooms in this interesting old town.

Winifred*s Dukke

ripen

i6i

VIII.

)cent

One clay, near the rivulet that runs from St. Winifred's
Well, I suddenly encountered Sinfi Lovell.

"Sinfi," I said, "she's dead, she's surely dead."

"I tell ye, brother, she ain't got to die!" said Sinfi, as she
came and stood beside me. "Winnie Wynne's on'y got to
beg her bread. She's alive."

"Where is she?" I cried. "Oh, Sinfi, I shall go mad!"

"There you're too fast for me, brother," said she, "when
you ask me zvhcre she is; but she's alive, and I ain't come
quite emp'y-handed of news about her, brother."

"Oh, tell me!" said I.

"Well," said Sinfi, "I've just met one of our people, Euri
Lovell, as says that, the very niornin' after we seed her on
the hills, he met her close to Carnarvon at break of day."

"Then she did go to Carnarvon," I said. "What a dis-
tance for those dear feet !"

"Euri knowed her by sight," said Sinfi, "but didn't know
about her bein' under the cuss, so he jist let her pass, sayin'
to hisself, 'She looks jist like a crazy wench this mornin',
does Winnie Wynne.' Euri was a-goin' through Carnarvon
to Bangor, on to Conway and Chester, and never heerd a
word about her bein' lost till he got back, six weeks ago."

"I must go to Carnarvon at once," said I.

"No use, brother," said Sinfi. "If / han't pretty well
worked Carnarvon, it's a pity. I've bee.i there the last three
weeks on the patrin-chase, and not a patrin could I find.
It's my belief as she never went into Carnarvon town at all,
but turned off and went into Llanbeblig churchyard."

"Why do you think so, Sinfi?"

" 'Cause her aunt, bein' a Carnarvon woman, was buried
among her own kin in Llanbeblig churchyard. Leastwise,
you won't find a ghose of a trace on her at Carnarvon, and
it'll be a long kind of a wild-goose chase from here ; but if
you will go, go you must."

She could not dissuade me from starting for Carnarvon at
once; and, as I would go, she seemed to take it as a matter
of course that she must accompany me. Our joimicy was
partly by coach and partly afoot.

■r 11

111

Lill

'I !!

162 Ayl

My first impulse

Win

I nearing Carnarvon was to go — I
could not have said why — to Llanbeblig churciiyard.

Among the group of graves of the Davieses we easily
found that of Winifred's aunt, beneath a no\vly-pl:iiitod
arbutus tree. After looking it the modest mound for some
time, and wondering where Winifred had stoud when the
coffin was lowered — as I had wondered where she had
stood at St. Winifred's Well — I roamed about the church-
yard with Sinfi in silence for a time.

At last she said : "I mind comin' here wonst with Winnie,
and I mind her sayin' : 'There's no place I should so much
like to be buried in as, in Llanbeblig churciiyard. The
graves of them as die unmarried do look so beautiful.' "

"How did she know the graves of those who die un-
married ?"

Sinfi looked over the churchyard and waved her hand.

"Wherever you see them beautiful primroses, and them
shinin' snowdrops, and them sweet-smcllin' vi'lets, that's
alius the grave of a child or else of a young Gorgie as died a
maid ; and wherever you see them laurel trees, and box
trees, and 'butus trees, that's the grave of a pusson as ain't
nuther child nor . .id, an' the Welsh folk think nobody else
on'y child'n an' maids ain't quite good enough to be turned
into the blessed flowers o' spring."

"Next to the sea," I said, "she loved the flowers of
spring."

"And / should like to be buried here too, brother," said
Sinfi, as we left the churchyard.

"But a fine strong girl like you, Sinfi, is not very likely to
die unmarried while there are Romany bachelors about."

"There ain't a-many Romany chals," she said, "as du'st
marry Sinfi Lovell, even supposin' as Sinfi Lovell 'ud marry
them, an' a Gorgio she'll never marry — an' never can marry.
And to lay here aneath the flowers o' spring, wi' the Welsh
sun a-shinin' on 'em as it's a-shinin' now, that nuist be a
sweet kind o' bed, brotlier, and for anytliink as I knows on,
a Romany chi 'ud make as sweet a bed of vi'lets as the bcau-
ti fullest Gorgie-wench as wur ever bred in Carnarvon, an*
as shinin' a bunch o' snowdrops as ever the Welsh spring
knows how to grow."

At any otlur time this extraordinary girl's talk would
have interested me greatly; nozi', nothing liad any interest
for mc that did not bear directly upon the fate of Winifred.

Winifred's Dukkeripcn

163

un-

Littlc dreaming how tins quiet churchyard liad lately
been one of the battle grounds of that all-conquering
power (Dc tiny, or Circumstance?) which had governed
W'innic'slifeand mine, 1 went with Sinfi into Carnarvon, and
made inquiry everywiure, but without the slightest result.
This occupied several days, during which time Sinfi stayed
with some acquaintances encamped near Carnarvon, while
I lodged at a little hotel.

"You don't ask me how you happened to meci me at
Holywell, brotiuT," said he to me, as we stood looking
across the water at CarnaiAon Castle, over whose mighty
battlements the moon was hghting with an army of black,
angry clouds, which a wild wind was leading furiously
against her — "you don't ask me how you happened to meet
me at Holywell, nor how long I've been back agin in dear
old Wales, nor what I've been a-doin' on since we parted;
but that's nuther here nor tin re. I'll tell you wh.;t I think
about Winnie an' the chances o' findin' her, brother, and
that'll intrust you more."

"What is it, Sinfi?" I cried, waking up from the reminis-
cences, bitter and sweet, the bright moon had conjured up
in my mind.

"Well, brother, Winnie, you see, was very fond o' me."

"She was, and good reason for being fond of you she had."

"Well, brother, bcin' very fond o' me, that made her very
fond o' all Romanics ; and though she took agin me at fust,
arter the cuss, as she took agin you because we was her
closest friends (that's what Mr. Blyth said, you know, they
alius do), she wouldn't take agin Romanies in general. No,
she'd take to Romanies in general, and she'd go hangin'
about the different camps, and she'd soon be snapped up,
being so comely, and they'd make a lot o' money out on her
jist havin' her with 'em for the 'dukkerin'."

"1 don't understand you." I said.

"Well, you know," said Sinfi, "anybody as is under the
cuss is half with the sperrits and half with us, and so can
tell the real 'dukkerin'.' Only it's bad f(*r a Romany to have
another Romany in the 'place* as is under the cuss ; but it
don't matter a bit about having a Gorgio among your breed
as is under a cuss; for Gorgio cuss can't never touch
Romany."

"Then you feel quite sure she's imt dead, Sinfi?"

"She's jist as live as you an' me somewhcres, brother.

'■i(

164

Aylwin

I '

I. |. .

I,
[If

', I I

b*\

There's two things as keeps her aHve : there's the cuss, as
says she's got to beg her bread, and there's the dukkeripen
o' the Golden Hand on Snovvdon, as says she's got to marry
you."

"But, Sinfi, I mean tliat, apart from all this superstition of
yours, you have reason to think she's alive? and you think
she's with the Romanies ?"

"I know she's alive, and I think she's with the Romanies,
She must be, brother, with the Shaws, or the Lees, or the
Stanleys, or the Bozzclls, or some on 'em."

"Then," said I, "I'll turn < lypsy ; I'll be the second Aylwin
to own allegiance to the blood of Fenella Stanley. I'll scour
Great Britain till I find her."

"You can jine us if you like, brother. We're goin' all
through the West of England with the gries. You're fond o'
fishin' and s'hootin', brother, an' though you're a Gorgio,
you can't help bein' a Gorgio, and you ain't a mumply *un,
as I've said to Jim Burton many's the time ; and if you can't
give the left-hand body-blow like me, there ain't a-many
Gorgios nor yit a-many Romanies as knows better nor you
what their fistes wur made for, an' altogether, brother, Beng
te tassa mandi if I shouldn't be right-on proud to see ye jine
our breed. There's a coachmaker down in Chester, and he's
got for sale the beautifullest livin'-waggin in all England.
It's shiny orange-yellow with red window-blinds, and if
there's a colour in any rainbow as can't be seed in the panels
o' the front door, it's a kind o' rainbow I ain't never seed
nowheres. He made it for Jericho Bozzell, the rich Griengro
as so often stays at Raxton and at Gypsy Dell ; but Rhona
Bozzell iiates a waggin and alius will sleep in a tent. They
do say as the Prince o' Wales wants to buy that livin'-wag-
gin, only he can't spare the balansers just now — his family
bein' so big an' times bein' so bad. How much money ha'
you got? Can you stan' a hundud an' fifty gold balansers
for the waggin besides the fixins?"

"Sinfi," I said, 'I'm prepared to spend more than that in
seeking Winnie."

"Dordi, brother, you must be as rich as my dad, an' he's
the richest Griengro arter Jericho Bozzell. You an' me'll jist
go down to Chester," she continued, her eyes sparkling
with delight at the prospect of bargaining for the waggon,
"an' we'll fix up sich a livin'-wagg^in as no Romany rei never
had afore."

^llflilj]

Winifred's Dukkeripen

165

'Agreed !" I said, wringing her hand.

"An' now you an' mc's right pais," said Sinfi.

We went to Chester, and 1 became owner of the famous
"iivin'-vvaggin" coveted (according to Sinfi) by the great
personage whom, on account of his name, siie always spoke
of as a rich, powerful, but mysterious and invisible Welsh-
man. One of the monthly cheese-fairs w.*.- going on in the
Linen Hall. Among the rows of Welsh carts standing in
front of the "Old Yacht Inn," Sinfi introduced me to a
"Gricngro" (one of the Gypsy Locks of Gloucestershire)
of whom I bought a bay mare of extraordinary strength
and endurance.

IX.

-wag-

It was, then, to find Winifred that I joined the Gypsies.
And yet I will not deny that afifinity with the kinsfolk of my
ancestress Fenella Stanley must have had something to do
with this passage in my eccentric life. That strain of
Romany blood which, according to my mother's theory,
had much to do with drawing Percy Aylwin and Rhona
Boswell together, was alive and potent in my own veins.

But I must pause here to say a few words about Sinfi
Lovell. Some of my readers must have already recognised
her as a famous character in bohemian circles. Sinfi's
father was a "Griengro," that is to say, a horse-dealer. She
was, indeed, none other than that "Fiddling Sinfi" who be-
came famous in many parts of England and Wales as a
violinist, and also as the only performer on the old Welsh
stringed instrument called the "crwth," or cruth. Most
Gypsies are musical, but Sinfi was a genuine musical genius.
Having become, through the good nature of Winifred's
aunt Mrs. Davies, the possessor of a crwtli, and having been
taught by her the unique capabilities of that rarely seen in-
strument, she soon learnt the art of fascinating her Welsh
patrons by the strange, wild strains she could draw from it.
This obsolete six-stringed instrument (with two of the
strings reaching beyond the key-board, used as drones and
struck by the thumb, the bow only being used on the other
four, and a bridge placed, not at right angles to the sides
of the instrument, but in an oblique direction), though in

1 66

Aylvvin

'^il

I I

some important respects inferior to the violin, is in other
respects superior to it. Heard among the peaks of Snow-
don, as I heard them during our search for Winifred, the
notes of the crwth have a wonderful wildness and pathos.
It is supposed to have the power of drawing the spirits when
a maiden sings to its accompaniment a mysterious old
Cymric song or incantation.

Aniong her own people it was as a seeress, as an adept in
the real dukkering — the dukkering for the Romanies, as
distinguished from the false dukkering, the dukkering for
the Gorgios — that Sinli's fame was great. She had travelled
over nearly all England — wherever, in short, there were
horse-fairs — and was familiar with London, where in the
studios of artists she was in request as a face model of
extraordinary value. Nor were these all the characteristics
that distinguished iicr from the common herd of Romany
chies : she was one of the few Gypsies of either sex who
could speak with equal fluency both the English and Welsh
Romanes, and she was in the habit sometimes of mixing the
two dialects in a most singular way. Though she had lived
much in Wales, and ha 1 a passionate love of Snowdon, she
belonged to a famous branch of the Lovells whose haunt
had for ages beer in Wales and also the East Midlands, and
she had caught entirely the accent of that district.

Among artists in London, as I afterwards learnt, she often
went by the playful name of "Lady Sinfi Lovell," for the
following reason :

She was extremely proud, and believed the "Kaulo Cam-
loes" to represent the aristocracy not only of the Gypsies,
but of the world. Moreover, she had of late been brought
into close contact with a certain travelling band of Hun-
garian Gypsy-musicians, who visited England some time
ago. Intercourse with these had fostered her pride in a
curious manner. The musicians are the most intelligent
and most widely-travelled not only of the Hungarian Gyp-
sies, but of all the Romany race. They are darker than the
sjitoros czijanyok, or tented Gypsies. The Lovells being
the darkest of all the Gypslc;. of Great Britain (and the most
handsome, hence called Kaulo Camloes), it was easy to
make out an affinity closer than common between the Lov-
ells and the Hungarian musicians. vSinii heard inucli talk
among the Hungarians of the splendours of the early lead-
ers of the continental Ronuuiies. She was told of Romany

Cam-

Winifred's Dukkeripen 167

kings, dukes and counts. She accepted, with that entire
faith which characterised her, the stories of the exploits of
Duke Michael, Duke Andreas, Duke Panuel, and the rest.
It only needed a hint from one of her continental friends,
that her father, Panuel Lovell, was probahly a descendant
of Duke Panuel, for Sinfi to consider him a duke. From
that moment she felt as strongly as any Gorgie ever felt
the fine sentiment expressed in the phrase, noblesse oblige;
and to hear her say, ' Pm a duke's chavi [daughter], and
mustn't do so and so." was a delightful and refreshing ex-
perience to me. Poor Panuel groaned under these honours,
for Sinli insisted now on his dressing in a brown velveteen
coat, scarlet waistcoat with gold coins for buttons, and the
high-crowned ribbon-bedizened hat which prosperous Gyp-
sies once used to wear. She seemed to consider that her
sister Vidcy (whose tastes were low for a Welsh Gypsy) did
not belong to the higli aristocracy, though born of the same
father and mother. Moreover, "dook" in Romanes means
spirit, ghost, and very likely Sinfi foimd some power of asso-
ciation in this fact ; for Videy was a born sceptic.

One of the special charms of Gypsy life is that a man fully
admitted into the Romany brotherhood can be on tenns of
close intimacy with a Gypsy girl without awaking the small-
est suspicion of love-making or flirtation ; at least it was so
in my time.

Under my father's will, a considerable legacy had come to
me, and, after going to Londoi' 10 receive this, I made the
circuit of the West of England with Sinfi's people. No sign
whatever of Winifred did I find in any of the camps. I w^*^
for returning to Wales, wliere my thoughts always were ;
but .1 could not expect Sinfi to leave her family, so I started
thither alone, leaving my waggon in their charge. Before
I reached Wales, however, I met in the eastern part of
Cheshire, not far from Moreton Hall, some English Lees,
with whom I got into talk about the Hungarian musicians,
who were here then on aucjther tlying visit to luigland.
Something that dropped from one of the Lees as to the
traditions and superstitions of the Hungarian Gypsies with
regard to people suffering from dementia set me to think-
ing; and at last I came to the conclusion that if T really be-
lieved Winifred to have taken shelter among the Romanies,
it would be absurd not to follow up a band like thei.c Hun-
garians. Accordingly ] changed my course, and followed

i68

Aylwin

V . M

them up; but again without finding the sHghtest clue.
Eventually I returned to Wales, partly because that seemed
to be even yet the most likely region to afford some trace,
partly because I should there again see Sinfi Lovell on her
return from England.

My health was now much impaired by sleeplessness (the
inevitable result of my anxiety), and by a narcotic, which
from the commencement of my troubles I had been in the
habit of taking in ever-increasing doses — a terrible narcotic,
one of whose multitudinous effects is that of sending all the
patient's thoughts circling around one central idea like plan-
ets round the sun. Painful and agonizing as had been my
suspense, — my oscillation between hope and dread, — dur-
ing my wanderings with the Lovells, these wanderings had
not been without their moments of comfort, for all of which
I ha<I been indebted to Sinfi. She would sit with me in an
English lane, under a hedge or tree, on a balm> summer
evening, or among the primroses, wild hyacinths, butter-
cups and daisies of the sweet meadows, chattering her
reminiscences of Winifred. She would mostly end by say-
ing: "Winnie was very fond on ye, brother, and we shall
find her yit. Ihe Golden Hand on Snowdon wasn't sent
there for nothink. The dukkeripen says you'll marry her
yit; a love like yourn can follow the tryenest patrin as ever
w^ur laid." Then she w^ould play on her crwth and say, "Ah,
brother, I shad be able to make this crwth bring ye a sight
o' Winnie's liv^'n' mullo if she's alive, and there ain't a sperrit
of the hills as wouldn't answer to it,"

Of Gcrgit.'S generally, however, Sinfi had at heart a feel-
ing somewhat akin to dread. I could not understand it.

''Why do you dislike the Gorgios, S" ifi?" I said to her
one day on Lake Ogwen, after the return of the Lovells to
Wales. We wee trout-fishing from a boat anchored to a
heavy block of gtanite which she had fastened to a rope
and heaved overboard with a strength that would have sur-
passed that of most Englishwomen.

"That's nuther here nor there, brother," she replied,
mysteriously. So months and months dragged by, and
brought no trace of Winifred.

St clue.

seemed

le trace,

i on her

ess (the
, which
1 in the
larcotic,
^ all the
^e plan-
een my
I, — dur-
igs had
f which
le in an
lummer
butter-
ng her
by say-
/e shall
I't sent
rry her
as ever
y, "Ah,
a sight
sperrit

a fecl-
lit.

to her
veils to
2d to a
a rope
ve sur-

IV.

The Leader of the
Aylwinians

•eplied,
y, and

Ml VI ^

SM\

'tmi' '

■^

IV.— THE LEADER OF THE

AYLWINIANS

One day as Sinfi and I were strolling through the lovely
glades between Capcl Curig and Bettws y Coed, on our way
to a fishing-place, we sat down by a stream to eat some
bread and cheese we had brouglu with us.

The sunlight, as it broke here and there between the thick
foliage, was playing upon the little cascades in such magical
fashion — turning the water into a torrent that seemed as
though molten rubies and sapphires and opals were ablaze
in one dancing faery stream — that even the dark tragedy
of human life seemed enveloped for a moment in an atmos-
phere of poetry and beauty. Sinfi gazed at it silently, then
she said :

"This is the very place where Winnie wonst tried to save
a hernshaw as wair ^^ ounded. She wur tryin' to ketch hold
on it, as the water wur carryin' it along, and he pretty nigh
beat her to death wi' his wings for her pains. It wur then as
she come an' stayed along o' us for a bit, an' she got to be
as fond o' my crwth as you he's, an' she used to say that if
there wur any music as 'ud draw her sperrit back to the airth
arter she wur dead it 'ud be the sound o' my crwth ; but
there she wur wrong as wrong could be: Romany music
could never touch Gorgio sperrit ; 'tain't a bit hkely. But it
can draw her livin' mullo [wraith] ." And as she spoke she
began to play her crwth pini^icato and to sing the opening-
bars of the old Welsh incantation which I had heard on
Snowdon on that never-to-be forgotten morning.

This, as usual, sent my mind at once back to the picture
of Fenella Stanley calling round her by the aid of her music
the spirits of Snowdon. And then a strange hallucination

■-■>>

M! f :

^ )

172

Aylwin

cajiic upon nic, that made nie clutch at Siufi's arm. Close
hy her, rcllected in a Httle glassy pool divided off from the
current by a ring oi stones two blue eyes seemed gazing.
Tiicn the face and the ent. : figure of Winifred appeared,
but Winifred dressed as a '^ggar girl in rags, Winifred
standing at a street corner holding out matches for sale.

"Winifred!" I exclaimed; and then the hallucination
passed, and Sinfi's features were reflected in the water. My
exclamation had the strangest effect upon Sinfi. Her lips,
which usually wore a peculiarly proud and fearless curve,
quivered, and were losing the brilliant rosebud redness
which mostly characterised them. The little blue tattoo
rosettes at the corners of her mouth seemed to be growing
more distinct as she gazed in the water through eyes dark
and mysterious as Night's, but, like Night's own eyes,
ready, I thought, to call up the throbbing fires of a million
stars.

"What made you cry out 'Winifred'?" she said, as the
music ceased.

"What you told me about the spirits following the crwth
was cansing th' strangest dream," I answered. "I thought
1 saw \\'':nnie's face reflected in the water, and I thought she
was in awful distress. And all the time it was your face."

"That wur her livin' mullo," said Sinfi, solemnly.

Convinced though I w^as that the hallucination was the
natural result of Sinfi's harping upon the literal fulfilment
of the curse, it depressed me greatly.

Close to this beautiful spot we came suddenly upon two
tourists sketching. And now occurred one of those sur-
prises of which I have found that real life is far more full
than any fiction dares to be. As we passed the artists I
heard one call out to the other, with a "burr" which I will
not attempt to render, having never lived in the "Black
Country" :

"You have a true eye for composition ; what do you think
of this tree?"

The speaker's remarkable appearance attracted my atten-
tion.

"Well," said I to Sinfi, "that's the first time I ever saw a
painter shaven and dressed in a coat like a Quaker's."

Sinfi looked across at the speaker through the curling
smoke from my pipe, gave a start of surprise, and then said :
"So you've never seed himf That's because you're a coun-

III. Close
from the
d gazing,
appeared,
Winifred
r sale,
ucination
Iter. My
Her lips,
:ss curve,
1 redness
Lie tattoo
growing
;yes dark
wn eyes,
a million

i, as the

he crwth
thought

ught she
face."

was the
ilfilment

pon two
ose sur-
lore full
irtists I
h I will
'Black

)u think

y atten-

r saw a

curling
m said :
a coun-

The Leader of the Aylwinians 173

try Johnny, brother, and don't know nothink about Londra
life. That's a friend o' mine from Londra as has painted me
many's the time."

"Painted you ?" I said ; "the man in black, with the gog-
gle eyes, squatting there under the white umbrella? What's
his name?"

"That's the cel'erated Mr. Wilderspin, an' he's painted
me many's the time, an' a rare rum 'un he is too. Dordi ! it
makes me laugh to think on him. Most Gorgios is mad,
more or less, Ijut he's the maddest 'un I ever know'd."

We had by this time got close to the painter's companion,
who, sitting upright on his camp-stool, was busy with his
brush. Without shifting his head to look at us, or remov-
ing his eyes from his work, he said, in a voice of striking
power and volume : "Nothing but an imperfect experience
of life. Lady Sinfi, could have made you pronounce our
friend there to be the maddest Gorgio living."

"Dordi !" exclaimed Sinfi, turning sharply round in great
astonishment. "Fancy seein' both on 'em here !"

"Mad our friend is, no doubt. Lady Sinfi," said the
painter, without looking round, "but not so mad as certain
illustrious Gorgios I could name, some of them born legis-
lators and some of them (apparently) born K.A.'s."

"Who should ha' thought oi seein' 'em both here?" said
Sinfi agj-in.

"That," said the painter, without even yet turning to look
at us or staying the movement of his brush, "is a remark
I never make in a little dot of a world like this. Lady Sinfi,
where I expect to see everybody everywhere. But, my dear
Romany chi,'' he continued, now turning slowly round, "in
passing your strictures upon the Gorgio world, you should
remember that you belong to a very limited aristocracy, and
that your remarks may probably fall upon ears of an en-
tirely inferior and Gorgio convolution,"

"No offence, I hope," said Sinfi.

"Offence in calliiij^ the Gorgios mad? Not the smallest,
save that you have distinctly plagiarized from me in your
classification of the Gorgio race."

His companion called out again. "Just one moment ! Do
come and look at the position of this tree."

"In a second, Wilderspin, in a second," said the
other. "An old friend and myself are in the midst of a
discussion."

, %i

, \

I ! I

174

Aylwin

"A discussion !" said the person addressed as Wilderspin.
"And with whom, pray ?"

"With Lady Sinli Lovell, — a discussion as to the exact
value of your own special kind of madness in relation to the
tomfooleries of the Gorgio mind in general."

"Kekka! kekka!" said Sinfi, "you shouldn't have said
that."

"And I was on the point of proving to her ladyship that in
these days, when Art has become genteel, and even New
Grub Street 'decorates' her walls — when success means not
so much painting fine pictures as building fine houses to
paint in — the greatest compliment you can pay to a man
of genius is surely to call him either a beggar or a madman."

The peculiarity of this "chaff" was that it was uttered in a
simple and serious tone, in which not the faintest tinge of
ironical intent was apparent. The other artist looked across
and said : "Dear me ! Sinfi Lovell ! I am pleased to see you,
Sinfi. I will ask you for a sitting to-morrow. A study of your
head would be very suggestive among the Welsh hills. '

The man who had been "chaffing" Sinfi then rose and
walked towards his Quaker-like companion, and I had an
opportunity of observing him fully. I saw that he was a
spare man, wearing a brown velvet coat and a dark felt hat.
The collar of the coat seemed to have been made carefully
larger than usual, in order to increase the apparent width of
his chest. His hair was brown and curly, but close cut.
His features w^ere regular, perhaps handsome. His com-
plexion was bright, — ^fair almost, — rosy in hue, and his eyes
were brown. -

He shook hands with Sinfi as he passed us, and gave me
a glance of that rapid and all-comprehending kind which
seems to take in, at once, a picture in its every detail.

"What do you think of him?" said Sinfi to me, as he
passed on and we two sat down on the grass by the side of
the stream.

"I am puzzled," I replied, "to know whether he is a young
man who looks like a middle-aged one, or a middlc-agcd
man who looks like a young one. How's his hair under the
hat?"

"Thinnish atop," said Sinfi, laconically.

"And I'm puzzled," I added, still looking at him as he
walked over the grass^ "as to whether he's a little man who
looks middle-sized, or a middle-sized man who looks little."

The Leader of the Aylwinians 175

"He's a little big 'iin," said Sinfi; "about the height o'
Rhona Bozzell's Tarno Rye."

"Altogether he puzzles me, Sinfi!"

"He puzzled me same way at fust."

What was it that made me take an interest so strange,
strong, and sudden in this man? Without a hint of hair
upon his face, while juvenile curls clustered thick and
short beneath his wide-awake, he had at first struck me
as being not much more than a lad, till, as he gave me
that rapid, searching glance in passing, I perceived the
little crow's feet round his eyes, and he then struck me
immediately as being probably on the verge of thirty-five.
His figure was slim and thin, his waist almost girlish in its
fall. I should have considered him small had not the
unusually deep, loud, manly, and sonorous voice with which
he had accosted Sinfi conveyed an impression of size and
weight such as even big men do not often produce. This
deep voice, coupled with that gaunt kind of cheek which
we associate with the most demure people, produced an
effect of sedateness such as I should have expected to
find (and did not find) in the other man — the man of the
shaven cheek and Quaker costume ; but, in the one glance
I had got from those watchful, sagacious, twinkling eyes,
there was an expression quite peculiar to thcni, quite in-
scrutable, quite indescribable.

11.

"Can yiou reckon him up, brother?" said Sinfi, taking my
meerschaum from my lips to refill it for me, as she was fond
of doing.

"No."

"Nor T riuther/' said Sinfi. "Nor T can't pen his dukker-
in' nuther, though often's the time I've tried it."

During this time the two friends seemed to have finished
their colloquy upon "conmosition"; for they both came up
to us. Sinfi rose; I sat still on the grass, smoking my pipe,
listening to the chatter of the water as it rushed over the
rocks. By this time my curiosity in the younger man had
died away. My mind was occnpied with the dream-picture

11 ■ V

, .. 1

f I

;■ 1

h ti

'!:;

176

Aylwin

of a little blue-eyed girl strup^gling with a vvouiulctl heron,
i had noticed, however, that he of lh« [>icrcing eyes did not
look at nie again, having entirely exhausted at a glance
such interest as I had momentarily afforded iiim; while
his companion seemed quite unconscious of my presence
as he stood there, his large, full, deep, brown eyes gazing
apparently at something over my head, a long way off.
Also I had noticed that "Visi')nary" was stamped upon this
man's every feature — tliat he seemed an insi)ired baby of
forty, talking there to his companion and to Sinfi, the sun
falling upon his long, brown, curly hair, mixed with gray,
which fell from beneath his hat, and floated around his
collar like a mane.

When my reverie had passed, I found tlie artists trying
to arrange with Sinfi to give an open-air sitting to one of
them, the man addressed as Wilderspin. Sinfi seemed
willing enough to come to terms; but I saw her look round
at me as if saying to herself, "What am I to do with you?"

"I should like for my brother to sit too," I heard her say.

"Surely !" said Wilderspin. "Your brother would be a
great gain to my picture."

Sinfi then came to me, and said that the painter wanted
me to sit to him.

"But," said I in an undertone, "the Gorgios will certainly
find out that I am no Romany."

"Not they," said Sinfi, "the Gorgios is sich fools. Why,
bless you, a Gorgio ain't got eyes and ears like a Romany.
You don't suppose as a Gorgio can hear or see or smell
like a Romany can?"

"But you forget, Sinfi, that I am a Gorgio, and there are
not many Romanies can boast of better senses than vour
brother Hal."

"Dordi!" said Sinfi, "that's jist like your mock-modesty.
Your great-grandmother wur a Romany, and it's my belief
that if you only went back fur enough, you'd find you
had jist as good Romany blood in your veins as I have, and
my daddy is a duke, you know% a real, reg'lar, out-an'-out
Romany duke."

"I'm afraid you flatter me, sister," I replied. "Hov^/'^ver,
let's try the Gorgios"; and I got up and walked with her
close to the two sketchers.

Wilderspin was on the point of engaging me, when the
other man, without troubling to look at me again, said:

Tht Leader of the Aylwinians 177

"He's no more a Romany than I am."

"Ain't a Romany?" said Sinfi "Who says my brother
ain't a Romany ? Where did you ever see a Gorgio with a
skin like that?" she said, triumph; iitly pulHng up my slei-ve
and exposing one of my wrists. "That aint sunburn, that's
the real Romany brown, an' we's twinses, only I'm the big-
gest, an' we's the child'n of a duke, a real, reg'lar, out-an'-
ont Romany duke."

He gave a glance at the exposed wrist.

"As to the Ron niy brown," said he, "a little soap would
often make a change in the best Romany brown — ducal or
other."

"Why, look at his neck," said Sinfi, turning down my
neckerchief; "is that sunburn, or is it Romany brown, I
should like to know?"

"I assure you," said the speaker, still avldressing her in the
same grave, measured voice, "that the Romanic have no
idea what a little soap can do with the Romany brown."

"Do you mean to say," cried Smfi, now entirely losing
her temper (for on the subject of Romany cleanliness she,
the most cleanly of women, was keenl\ sensitive) — "do you
mean to say as the Romany chals an' the Romany cliies
don't wash theirselves? I know what you fine Gorgies
do say, — you're alius a-tellin' lies about us Romanies.
Brother," she cried, tr.rning now to me in a great fury, "I'm
a duke's chavi, and mustn't fight no mumply Gorgios; why
don't you take an' uki aC his bed for him?"

And certainly the man's supercilious impertinence was
beginning to irritate me.

"I should advise you to withdraw that about the soap," I
said quietlv, looking at him.

"Oh! and if I don't?"

"Why, then I suppose I must do as my sister bids," said
I.^ "I must make your bed," pointing to the grass beneath
his feet. "But I think it only fair to tell you that I am some-
what of a fighting man, which you probably are not."

"You mean?. . ." said he (turning round menacingly but
with no more notion of how to use his fists than a lobster).

"I mean that we should not be fighting on equal terms,"
I said.

"In other words, " said he, "you mean? . . ." and he
came nearer.

"In other words, I mean that, judging from the way in

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178

Aylwin

which you arc advancing towards me now, the result ot
such an encounter might not tend to the honour and glory
of the British artist in Wales."

"But," said he, "you are no Gypsy. Who arc you?"

"My name is Henr>' Aylwin," said I; "and I must ask
you to withdraw your words about the virtues of soap, as
my sister objects to them."

"What?" cried he, losing for the first time his matchless
sang-froid. "Henry Aylwin?" Then he looked at me in
silent amazement, while an expression of the deepest
humorous enjoyment overspread his features, making them
posi.'vely shine as though oiled. Finally, he hurst into a
loud laugh, that was all the more irritating from the mani-
fest effort he made to restrain it.

"Did I hear his Majesty of Gypsydom aright?" he said, as
soon as his hilarity allowed him to speak. "Is the humble
bed of a mere painter to be made for him by the representa-
tive of the proud Aylwins, the genteel Aylwins, the heir-
presumptive Aylwins — the most respectable branch of a
most respectable family, which, alas! has its un-Ti'cnteel, its
boliemian, its vulgar off-shoots? Did I hear his Majesty of
Gypsydom aright?"

He leant against a tree, and gave utterance to peal after
peal of laughter.

I advanced with rapidly rising anger, but his hilarity had
so overmastered him that he did not heed it.

"Wilderspin," cried he, "come here! Pray come here.
Have I not often told you the reason why I threw up my
engagement with my theatrical manager, and missed my
high vocation in ungenteel comedy? Have I not often
told you that it sprang from no disrespect to my friends,
the comic actors, but from the feeling that no comedian
can hope to be comic enough to compete with the real
thing — the true harlequinade of everyday life, roaring and
screaming around me wherever I go?"

Then, without waiting for his companion's reply, he
turned to me, and giving an added volume to his sonorous
voice, said:

"And you. Sir King, do you kno.v whose bed your
Majesty was going to make at the bidding of — ^well, of a
duke's chavi?"

I advancf'd with still growing anger.

"Stay, King Bamfylde, stay," said he ; "shall the beds of

: result of
anc) glory

)U?"

must ask
i soap, as

matchless
at me in
2 deepest
(ing them
rst into a
the mani-

le said, as
e humble
^resenta-
the heir-
nch of a
snteel, its
lajesty of

peal after

arity had

me here.
w up my
issed my
lot often
' friends,
;omedian
the real
ring and

eply, he
sonorous

ed your
^ell, of a

beds of

The Leader of the Aylwinians 179

the mere ungenteel Aylwins, 'the outside Ayhvins,' be made
by the high Gypsy-gentility of Rax*^on?"

A light began to break in upon me. "Surely," I said,
"surely you are not Cyril Aylvvin, the ?"

"Pray finish your sentence, sir, and say the low bohemian
painter, the representative of the great ungenteel — the suc-
cessor to the Aylwin peerage."

The other painter, looking in blank amazement at my
newly-found kinsman's extraordinary merriment, ex-
claimed, "Bless me! Then you really can laugh aloud, Mr.
Cyril. What has happened? What can have happened
to make my dear friend laugh aloud?"

"Well he may ask," said Cyril, turning to me. "He knows
that ever since I was a boy in jackets I have despised the
man who, in a world where all is so comic, could select any
particular point of the farce for his empty guflfaw. But I
am conquered at last. Let me introduce you. Wilderspin,
to my kinsman, Henry Aylwin of Raxton Hall, alias Lord
Henry Lovell of Little Egypt — one of Duke Panuel's in-
teresting twinses."

But Wilderspin's astonishment, apparently, was not at
the rencontre: it was at the spectacle of his companion's
hilarity. "Wonderful!" he murmured, with his eyes still
fastened upon Cyril. "My dear friend can laugh aloud.
Most wonderful! What can have happened?"

This is what had happened. By one of those strange
coincidences which make the drama of real life far more
wonderful than the drama of any stage, I, in my character
of wandering Gypsy, had been thrown across the path of
the bete noire of my mother and aunt, Cyril Aylwin, a painter
of bohemian proclivities, who (under the name of "Cyril")
had obtained some consideralble reputation. This kinsman
of mine had been held up to me as a warning from mv
very childhood, though wherein lay his delinquencies I
never did clearly understand, save that he had once been
an actor— before acting had become genteel. Often as I
had heard of this eccentric painter as the representative of
the branch of the family which preceded mine in the succes-
sion to the coveted earldom, T had never seen him before.

He stood and looked at me in a state of intense amuse-
ment, but did not speak.

"So you are Cyril Aylwin?" T said. "Still you must
withdraw what you said to my sister about the soap."

i8o

Aylwin

"Delicious!" said he, grasping my hand. "I had no idea
that high gentihty numbered chivalry among its virtues.
Lady Sinfi," he continued, turning to her, "they say this
brother of yours is a character, and, by Jove! he is. And
as to you, dear lady, I am proud of the family connection.
The rnan who has two Romany Rye kinsmen may be ex-
cused for showing a little pride. I withdraw every word
about the virtues of soap, and am convinced that it can do
nothing with the true Romany- A}-! win brown."

On that wc shook hands all round. "But, Sinfi," said I,
"why did you not tell me that this was my kinsman?"

" 'Cause I didn't know," said she. "I han't never seed
him since I've know'd you. I always heerd his friends call
him Cyril, and so I used to call him Mr. Cyril."

"But, Lady Sinfi, my Helen of Little Egypt," said Cyril,
"suppose that in my encounter with my patrician cousin —
an encounter which would have been entirely got up in
honour of you — suppose it had happened that I had made
your brother's bed for him?"

"You make his bed!" exclaimed Sinfi, laughing. "Dordi!
how you would ha' went down afore the Swimmin' Rei!"*

"But suppose that, on the contrary, he had gone down
before me," said Cyril; "suppose I had been the death of
your Swimming Rei, I should have been tried for the wilful
murder of a prince of Little Egypt, the son of a Romany
duke. Why, Helen of Troy was not half so mischievous a
beauty as 3^ou."

"You was safe enough, no fear," said Sinfi. "It 'ud take
six o' you to settle the Swimmin' Rei."

I found that Cyril and his strange companion were stay-
ing at the "Royal Oak," at Bettws y Coed. They asked me
to join them, but when I told them I "could not leave my
people, who were encamped about two miles ofT," Cyril
again looked at me with an expression of deepest enjoy-
ment, and exclaimed "Delightful creature."

Turning to Sinfi, he said: "Then we'll go with you and
call upon the noble father of the twins, mv old friend King
Panuel."

"He ain't a king," said Sinfi modestly, "he's only a duke."

* By the Welsh Gypsies, but few of whom can swini, I was called
"the Swimmin' Rei," a name which would have been far more ap-
propriately given to Percy Aylwin (Rhona Boswell's lover), one of
the strongest swimmers in England; but he was simply called the
Tarno Rye (the young gentleman.)

'■.■t

The Leader of the Aylwinians i8i

"You'll give us some tea, Lady Sinfi?" said Cyril. "No
tea equal to Gypsy tea."

"Romany tea, Mr. Cyril," replied Sinfi, with perfect
dignity and grace. "My daddy, the duke, will be pleased
to welcome you."

We all strolled towards the tents. I offered to carry an
umbrella and a camp-stool. Cyril walked briskly away
with Sinfi, leaving me to get on with Wilderspin as best I
could. Before the other two were out of earshot, however,
I heard Cyril say :

"You shouldn't have taken so seriously my chaff about
the soap, Sinfi. You ought to know me better by this time
than to think that I would really insult you."

"How you would ha' went down afore the Swimmin'
Rei!" replied Sinfi regretfully.

III.

Between my new companion, Wilderspin, and myself there
was an awkward silence for some time. He was evidently in
a brown study. I had ample opportunity for examining his
face. Deeply impressed upon his forehead there was, as
I now perceived, an ancient scar of a peculiar shape. At
last, a lovely bit of scenery broke the spell, and conversation
began to flow freely.

We had nearly got within sight of the encampment when
he said :

"I am in some perplexity, sir, about the various branches
of your family. Aylwin, I need not tell you, was the name
of the greatest man of this age, and I am anxious to
know what is exactly your connection v/ith him."

"You surprise me," I said. "Out of our own family, in
its various branches, there is, I have been told, no very
large number of Aylwins, and I had no idea that one of
them had become fam.ous."

"I did not say famous, sir, but gieat; two very different
words. Yet, in a certain deep sense, it may be said of
Philip Aylwin's name that since his lamented death it has
even become famous. The Aylwinians (of which body I
am, as you are no doubt aware, founder and president) are,
I may say, becoming-

»»

182

Aylwin

"Philip Aylwin!" I said. "Why, that was my father. He
famous!"

The recollection of the essay upon "Hamalet and Ham-
let," the thought of the brass-rubbing-s, the knee-caps and
mittens, came before me in an irresistibly humorous light,
and I could not repress a smile. Then arose upon me the re-
membrance of the misery that had fallen upon Winnie and
myself from his monomania and what seemed to me his
superstitious folly, and I could not withhold an angry scowl.
Then came the picture of the poor scarred breast, the love-
token and the martyrdom that came to him who had too
deeply loved, and smile and frown both passed from my face
as I murmured, — "Poor father! he famous!"

"Philip Aylwin's son!" said Wilderspiri, staring at me.
Then, raising his hat as reverentially to me as if I had been
the son of Shakespeare himself, he said, "Mr. Aylwin, since
Mary Wilderspin went home to heaven, the one great event
of my life has been the reading of The Veiled Queen,
your father's book of inspired wisdom upon the modern
Renascence of Wonder in the mind of Man. To apply his
principles to Art, sir, — to give artistic rendering to the pro-
found idea hinted at in the marvellous vignette on the
title-page of his tMrd edition, — has been, for some time past,
the proud task of my life. And you are the great man's son !
Astonishing ! Although his great learning overwhelms my
mind and appals my soul (whom, indeed, should it not over-
whelm and appal?) there is not a pamphlet of his that I do
not know intimately, almost by heart."

"Including the paper on 'Hamlet and Hamalet, and the
wide region of Nowhere'?"

"Including that and everything."

"Did you know him, Mr. Wilderspin?"

"Not in the flesh; in the spirit, who knows him so well?
Your mother I have had the pleasure of meeting at the
house of Lord Sleaford, and indeed I have had the dis-
tinguished honour of painting her portrait, but the great
author of The Veiled Queen, — ^the inspired designer of
the vignette symbolical of the Eenascence of Wonder in
Art — I never had the rapture of seeing. This very day, the
anniversary of his birth," he continued, "is a great day in
the Aylwinian calendar."

"My father's birthday? Why, so it is!"

"Mr. Aylwin, is it possible that the anniversary of a day

' ^^"" ■■

father. He

The Leader of the Aylwinians 183

so momentous for the world is forgotten — forgotten by the
very issue of the great man's loins?"

"The fact is," said I, in some confusion, "I have been
living with the Gypsies, and, you see, Mr. Wilderspin, the
passage of time "

"The son of Philip Aylwin a Gypsy!" murmured Vilder-
spin meditatively, and unconscious evidently that he was
speaking aloud — "a Gypsy! Still it would surely be a mis-
take to suppose," he continued, perfectly oblivious now
of my presence, "that the vagaries of the son can really
bring shame upon the head of the father."

"But, by God!" I cried, "it is no mistake that the vagaries
of the father can bring shame and sorrow and misery upon
the child. I could name a couple of fathers — sleeping very
close to each other now — 'whose vagaries "

My sudden anger was carrying me away; but I stopped,
recollecting myself.

"Doubtless," said Wilderspin, "there are fathers and
fathers. The son of Philip Aylwin has assuredly a right to
be critical in regard to all other fathers than his own."

I looked in his face; the expression of solemn earnestness
was quite unmistakable.

"It is not you," I said "it is Heaven, or else it is the blind
jester Circumstance, that is playing this joke upon me!"

"To your honoured father," he continued, taking not the
smallest notice of my interjection,"! owe everything. From
his grave he supports my soul; from his grave he gives me
ideas; from his grave he makes my fame. How should I
fail to honour his son, even though he "

Of course he was going to add, — "even though he be a
vagabond associating with vagabonds," — but he left the
sentence unfinished.

"I confess, Mr. Wilderspin," said I, "that you speak in
such enigmas that it would be folly for me to attempt to
answer you."

"I wish," said Wilderspin, "that all enigmas were as
soluble as this. Let me ask you a question, sir. When you
stood before my picture, 'Faith and Love,' in Bond Street,
did you not perceive that both it and the predella were in-
spired entirely by your father's great work, The Veiled
Queen, or rather that they are mere pictorial renderings
and illustrations of that grand effort of man's soul in its
loftiest development?"

¥ '

i! '

1 1 1

i ■

I* '•,: '« if:-

184

Aylwin

I had never heard of the picture in question. As for thj
book, my father, perceiving my great disHkc of mysticism,
had always shrunk from showing me any effusion of his
that was not of a simply antiquarian kind. In Switzerland,
however, after his death, while waiting for the embalmer to
finish his work, I had become, during a few days' reading,
acquainted with Tlte Veiled Queen. It was a new edi-
tion containing an ''added chapter," full of subtle spiritual-
istic symbols. Amid what had seemed to me mere mystical
jargon about the veil of Isis being uplifted, not by Man's
reason, not by such researches as those of Darwin, Huxley.
Spencer, and the continental evolutionists, but by Faith
and Love, I had come across passages of burning eloquence.

"I am sorry to say," I replied, "that my Gypsy wander-
ings are again answerable for my shortcomings. I have
not yet seen your picture. When I do see it I "

"Not seen 'Faith and Love' and the equally wonderful
predella at the foot of it?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Ah,
but you have been living among the Gypsies. It is the
greatest picture of the modern world; for, Mr. Aylwin, it
renders in Art the inevitable attitude of its own time and
country towards the unseen world, and renders it as com-
pletely as did the masterpiece of Polygnotus in the Leschc
of the Cnidians at Delphi — as completely as did the won-
derful frescoes of Andrea Orcagna on the walls of the
Campo Santo at Pisa."

"And you attribute your success to the inspiration you
derived from my father's book?"

"To that and to the spirit of Mary Wilderspin in heaven."

"Then you are a Spiritualist?"

"I am an Aylwinian, the opposite (need I say?) of a
Darwinian."

"Of the school of Blake, perhaps?" I asked.

"Of the school of Blake? No. He was on the right
road; but he was a writer of verses! Art is a jealous mis-
tress, Mr. Aylwin: the painter who rhymes is lost. Even
the master himself is so much the weaker by every verse
he has written. I never could make a rhyme in my life, and
have faithfully shunned printer's ink, the black blight of
the painter. I am my own school; the school of the spirit
world."

"I am very curious," I said, "to know in what way my
father and the spirits can have inspired a great painter. Of

As for tlK'

mysticism,
sion of his
witzcrland,
nbalmer to
^s' reading,
new edi-
e spiritual-
re mystical

by Man's
n, Huxley.

by Faith
eloquence.
y wandcr-
s. I have

wonderful

usiy. "Ah,
It is the
Aylvvin, it

time and
it as Coni-
ne Leschc

the won-
Ils of the

ation you

heaven."

ly?) of a

the right
ous mis-
t. Even
■^y verse
life, and
flight of
he spirit

way my
Iter. Of

The Leader of the Aylwinians 185

the vignette I may claim to know something. Of the spirits
as artists I have of course no knowledge, but as regards my
father, he, I am certain, could hardly have told a Raphael
from a chromo-lithograph copy. He was, in spite of that
same vignette, most ignorant of art. Raxton Hall possesses
nothing but family portraits."

IV.

By this time we had reached the encampment, which was
close by a waterfall among ferns and wild-fiowcrs. Little
Jerry Lovell, a child of about four years of age, came
running to meet me with a dead water-wagtail in his hand
which lie had knocked down.

"Me kill de Romany Chiriklo," said he, and then pro-
ceeded to tell me very gravely that, having killed the "Gypsy
magpie," he was bound to have a great lady for his sweet-
heart.

"Jerry," said I bitterly, "you begin with love and
superstition early ; you are an incipient 'Aylwinian' : take
care."

When I explained to Wilderspin that this was one of the
Romany beliefs, he said that he did not at present see the
connection between a dead water-wagtail and a live lady,
but that such a connection might doubtless exist. Panuel
Lovell now came forward to greet and welcome Wilderspin.
Sinfi and Cyril had evidently walked at a brisk rate, for
already tea was spread out on a cloth. The fire was blaz-
ing beneath a kettle slung from the "kettle-prop." The
party were waiting for us. Sinfi, however, never idle, was
filling up the time by giving lessons in riding to Euri and
Sylvester Lovell, two dusky urchins in their early teens,
while her favourite bantam-cock Pharadh, standing on a
donkey's back, his wattles gleaming like coral in the sun,
was crowing lustily. Cyril, who lay stretched among the
ferns, his chin resting in his hands and a cigarette in his
mouth, was looking on with the deepest interest. As I
passed behind him to introduce Wilderspin to Videy Lovell
(who was making tea), I heard Cyril say:

"Lady Sinfi, you must and shall teach me how to make

1 86

Aylwin

h>'

Iv i •

I ?

an adversary's bed — the only really essential part of a 'ibcral
education."

"BrotluT," said Sinfi, turninpf to me, "your thoughts are
a-flyin' off i\^\n; keep your spirits up afore all these."

The leafy dingle was recalling (Iraylinghatn Wilderness
and "Fairy DeW," where little Winifred used to play Titania
to my childish Oberon, and dance the Gypsy "shawl-dance"
Sinfi had taught her!

So much was I occupied with these reminiscences that I
had not observed that during our absence our camp had
been honoured by visitors. These were Jericho Boswell,
christened, I believe, Jasper, his daughter Rhona, and
James Heme, called on account of his accomplishments as
a penman the Scollard. Although Jasper Boswell and
Panuel Lovell were rival Griengocs, there was no jealousy
between them — indeed, they were excellent friends.

There were many points of similarity between their char-
acters. Each had risen from comparative poverty to what
might be called wealth, and risen in the same way, that
is to say, by straightforward dealing with the Gorgios,
although as regarded Jericho, Rhona was generally credited
with having acted as a great auxiliary in amassing his
wealth. All over the country the farmers and horse-dealers
knew that neither Jasper nor Panuel ever bishoped a gry,
or indulged in any other horse-dealing tricks. Their very
simplicity of character had done what all the crafty tricks
of certain compeers of theirs had failed to do. They were
also very much alike in their good-natured and humorous
way of taking all the ups and downs of life.

A very different kind of Romany was the Scollard, so
different, indeed, that it was hard to think that he was of the
same race: Romany guile incarnate was the Scollard. He
suggested even in his personal appearance the typical Gypsy
of the novel and the stage, rather than the true Gypsy as he
lives and moves. The Scollard was well known to be half-
crazed with a passion for Rhona Boswell, who was the
fiwiccc of that cousin of mine, Percy Aylwin, before men-
tioned. Percy was considered to be a hopelessly erratic
character. Much against the wish of his parents, he had
been brought up as a sailor; but on seeing Rhona Boswell
he promptly fell in love with her, and quitted the sea in
order to be near her. And no man who ever heard Rhona's
laugh professed to wonder at Percy's infatuation. As a

rt of a 'ibcral

The Leader of the Aylv/inians 187

Griengro her father, Jericho Roswell, who had no son, was
said to ha j owed his prosperity to Rhona's instinctive
knowledge of horsetlesl:.

While our guests, Romany and Gorgio, were doing jus-
tice to the trout, Welsh brown bread and butter and jam
which Videy had spread before them, Sinfi went to the back
of the camp to look at the ponies, and 1 got into conversa-
tion with Rhona lioswell, whom I remembered so well as
a child. At first she was shy and embarrassed, doubtful,
as I perceived, whether or not she ought to talk about
Winnie. She waited to see whether I introduced the sub-
ject, and finding that I did not, she began to talk about
Sinfi and plied me with questions as to what we two had
been doing and where we had been during our wanderings
through Wales.

When tea was over and Cyril was in lively talk with
Sinfi, Wilderspin grew restless, and I perceived that he
wanted to resume his conversation with me about his
picture. I said to him: "This idea of my father's which
has inspired you, and resulted in such great work, what is
its nature?"

"I am a painter, Mr. Aylwin, and nothing more," he re-
plied. "I could only express Philip Aylwin's ideas by de-
scribing my picture and the predella beneath it. Will you
permit me to do so?"

"May I ask you," I said, "as a favour to do so?"

Immediately his face became very bright, ai.d into his
eyes returned the far-off look already describee.

"I will first take the predella, which represents Isis be-
hind the Veil," said he. "Imagine yourself thousands of
years away from this time. Imagine yourself thousands
of miles away, among real Egyptians."

"Real 'Gyptians!" cried Sinfi. "Who says the Romanies
ain't real 'Gyptians? Anybody as says my daddy ain't a
real 'Gyptian duke'll ha' to set to with Sinfi Lovell."

"Nonsense," said Cyril, smiling, and playing idly with a
coral amulet dangling from Sinfi's neck; "he's talking about
the ancient Egyptians : Egyptian munmiies, you silly Lady
Sinfi. You're not a mummy, are you?"

"Well, no, I ain't a mummy as fur as I knows on," said
Sinfi, only half-appeased; "but my daddy's a 'Gyptian duke
for all that, — ain't you, dad?"

"So it seems, Sin," said Panucl, "but I ommust begin to

i88

Aylwin

J :l

wish I wasn't; it mokes you feci so hlazin' sliy hoiu' a diikt
all of a suddeiit."

"Dabla!" said the guest, Jericho IJoswcll. "What, Pan,
has she made a dook on ye?"

The ScoUard began to grin.

"Pull that ugly mug o' yourn sti"aight, Jim Ilcrne," said
Sinfi, "cl.^e Pll come and pull it straight for yon."

Wildcrspin took no notice of the interruption, but ad-
dressed me as though no one else were within earshot.

"Imagine yourself standing in an Egyptian city, where
innumerable lamps of every hue are shining. It is one of
the great lamp-fetes of Sias, which all Egypt has come to
see. There, in honour of the feast, sits a tall woman, cov-
ered by a veil. But the painting is so wonderful, Mr.
Aylwin, that, though you see a woman's face expressed
behind the veil — though you see the warm flesh-tints and
the light of the eyes through the aerial film — you cannot
judge of the character of the face — you cannot see whether
it is that of woman in her noblest, or wom.an in her basest,
type. The eyes sparkle, but you cannot say whether they
sparkle with malignity or b'^nevolence — ^whether they are
fired with what Philip Aylwin calls 'the love-liglit of the
seventh heaven,' or are threatening with 'the hungry flames
of the seventh hell!' There she sits in front of a portico,
while, asleep, with folded wings, is crouched on one side of
her the figure of Love, with rosy feathers, and on the other
the figure of Faith, with plumage of a deep azure. Over
her head, on the portico, are written the words: — *I am
all that hath been, is, and shall be, and no mortal hath
uncovered my veil.' The tinted lights falling on the group
are shed, you see, from the rainbow-coloured lamps of Sais,
which are countless. But in spite of all these lamps, Mr.
Aylwin, no mortal can see the face behind that veil. And
why? Those who alone could uplift it, the figures with
folded wings — P'aith and Love — are fast asleep at the great
Queei.'s feet. When Faith and Love are sleeping there,
what are the many-coloured lamps of science? — of what
use are they to the famished soul of man?"

"A striking idea!" I exclaimed.

"Your father's," replied Wilderspin, in a tone of such
reverence that one might have imagined my father's spectre
stood before him. "It symbolises that base Darwinian cos-
mogony which Carlyle spits at, and the great and good

ii ' ^

The Leader of the Aylvvinians 189

John Ruskin scorns. But this design is only the prcdclla
beneath the picture 'Faith anu Love.' Now look at the
picture itself, Mr. Aylvvin," he continued, as though it were
upon an easel before me. "You arc at Sals no longer: you
ire now, as the architecture around you shows, in a Greek
city by the sea. In the light of innumerable lamps, torches,
and wax tapers, a procession is moving through the streets.
You see Isis, as Pelagia, advancing between two ranks, one
of joyous maidens in snow-white garments, adorned with
wreaths, and scattering from their bosoms all kinds of
dewy flowers; the other of youths, playing upon pipes and
llutes, mixed with men with shaven shining crowns, play-
ing upon sistra of brass, silver, and gold. Isir wears a
Dorian tunic, fastened on her breast by a tasselled knot,
— an azure-coloured tunic bordered with silver stars, — and
an upper garment of the colour of the moon at moonrise.
Her head is crowned with a chaplet of sea-flowers, and
round her throat is a necklace of seaweeds, wet still with
sea-water, and shimmering with all the shifting hues of the
sea. On either side of her stand the awakened angels, up-
lifting from her face a veil whose folds flow soft as water
over her shoulders and over the wings of Faith and Love.
A symbol of the true cosmogony which Philip Aylwin gave
to the world!"

' Why, that's ezackly like the wreath o' seaweeds as poor
Winnie Wyne used co make," said Rhoua Boswell.

"The photograph of Raxton Fair!" I cried. "Frank and
Winnie, and little Bob Milford, and the seaweeds!" The
terrible past came upon my soul like an avalanche, and I
leapt up and walked frantically towards my own waggon.
The picturj, which was nothing but an idealisation of the
vignette upon the title-page of my father's book — the
vignette taken from the photograph of Winnie, my brother
Frank, and one of my fisher-boy playmates — brought back
upon me — all!

Sinfi came to me.

"What is it, brother?" said she.

"Sinii," L cried, "what was that saying of your mother's
about fathers and children?"

"My poor mammy's daddy, when she wur a little chavi,
beat her so cruel that she was a ailin' woman all her life,
and she used to say, 'For good or for ill, you must dig
deep to bury your daddy*."

i.*i >

VI J M

;j ■

190 AylwJn

1 went back and resumed my seat by Wilderspin's side,
while Sinfi returned to Cyril.

Wilderspin evidently thought that 1 had been overcome
by the marvellous power of his description, and went on
as though there had been no interruption.

"Isis," said he, "stands before you; Isis. not matronly
and stern as the motlier of Horus, nor as the Isis of the
licentious orgies; but (as Philip Ayhvin says) 'Isis, the
maiden, gazing around her, with pure but mystic eyes.' "

'And you got from my father's book, The Veiled Queen,
all this" — I was going to add, — "jumble of classic story and
mediaeval mysticism," — but I stopped short in time.

"All this and more — a thousand times more than could be
rendered Dy the art of any painter. For the age that
Carlyle spits at and the great and good John Ruskin scorns
is gross, Mr. Aylwin; the age is grovelling and gross.
No wonder, then, that Art in our time has nothing but tech-
nical excellence ; that it despises conscience, despises aspira-
tion, despises soul, despises even ideas — ^^that it is worthless,
all worthless."

"Except as practised m a certain temple of art in a cer-
tain part of London that shall be nameless, whence Calliope.
Euterpe, and all the rhythmic sifters are banished," inter-
posed Cyril.

"But how did you attain to this superlative excellence,
Mr. Wilderspin?" I asked.

"That would indeed be l long story to tell," said he. "Yet
Philip Aylwin's son has a right to know all that I can tell.
My dear friend here knows that, though famous now, I
climbed the ladder of Art from the bottom rung; nay,
before I could even reach the bottom rung, what a toilsome
journey was mine to get within sight of the ladder at all!
The future biographer of t' e painter of 'Faiih and Love' will
have to record that he was born in a hovel; that he was
nursed in a smithy; that his cradle was a piece of boird
suspended fr(3m the smithy ceiling by a chain, which his
mother — his widowed mother — kept swinging by an
occasional touch in the intervals of her labours at the
forge."

I did not even smile at this speech, so entirely was the
effect of its egotism killed by the wonderful way of pro-
nouncing the word "mother."

"Yo.'. have heard," he continued in a voice whose in-

m \^

lerspin's side,

The Leader of the Aylwinians 191

tense earnestness had an irresistible fascination fo/ the ear,
like that of a Hindoo charmer — "you have heard of the
mother-bird who feeds her young from the blood of her
own breast; that bird but feebly typifies her whom (iud, in
His abundant love of me, gave me for a mother. There
weif: ten of us — ten little children. My mother was a
female blacksmith of Oldhill, who for four shilling's and
sixpence a week worked sixteen hours a day for the fogger,
hammering hot iron into nails. The scar upon my fore-
head — look ! it is shaped like the red-hot nail that one day
leapt upon me from her anvil, as I lay asleep in my swing
above her head. I would not lose it for all the diadems
of all the monarchs of this world. She was much too poor
to educate us. When the wolt is at the door, Mr. Aylwin,
and the very flesh and blood of the babes in danger of
perishing, what mother can find time to think of education,
to think even of the salvation of the soul, — to think of
anything but food — food? Have you ever wanted food,
Mr. Aylwin?" he suddenly said in a voice so magnetic from
its very earnestness, that I seemed for the moment to feel
the faintness of hunger.

"No, no," I said, a t.de of grief rushing upon me; "but
there is one who perhaps — there is one I love more dearly
than your mother loved her babes "

Sinfi rose, and came and placed her hand upon my shoul-
der and whispered :

"She ain't a-starvin,' brother; she never starved on the
hills. She's only jest a-beggin' her bread for a little while,
that's all."

And then, after laying her hand upon my forehead, soft
and soothing, she returned to Cyril's side.

"No one who has never wanted food knows what life
is," said Wilderspin, taking but little heed of even so violent
an Interruption as this. "No one has been entirely educated,
Mr. Aylwin — no one knows the real primal meaning of that
pathetic word Man — no one knows the true meaning of
Man's position here among the other living creatures ol
this world, if he haj never wanted food. Hunger gives a
new seeing to the eyes."

"That's as true as the blessed stars," muttered old Mrs.
Boswell, Rhona's beloved granny, who was squatting on a
rug next to her son Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weav-
ing fancy baskets, and listening intently. "The very airth

'i'^/-/

111! i,^

' )

. \i

•iv

192 Aylwin

under your feet seems to be a-sinkin' away, and the sweet
sunshine itself seems as if it all belonged to the Gorgios,
when you're a-follerin' the patrin with the emp'y belly."

"I thank God," continued Wilderspin, "that I once
wanted food."

"More nor I do," muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went
on weaving; "no mammy as ever felt a little chavo*
a-suckin' at her burkf never thanked God for wantin' food ;
it dries the milk, or else it sp'iles it."

"In no way," said Wilderspin, "has the spirit-world
neglected the education of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I
became a 'blower' in the smithy. As a child, from early
sunrise till nearly midnight, I blew the bellows for eighteen-
pence a week. But long before I could read or write my
mother knew that I was set apart for great things. She
knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of
a nail on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world
pressed too heavily upon me, I should become a great
painter. Except anxiety about my mother and my little
brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no thought besides
this of being some day a painter. Except love for her and
for them, I had no other passion. By assiduous attendance at
night-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to
take a better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I learned
enough to take lessons in drawing from the reduced widow
of a once prosperous fogger. Butah ! so eager was I to learn,
that I did not notice how my mother was fading, wasting,
dying slowly. It was not till too late that I learnt the appall-
ing truth, that while the babes had been nourished, the
mother had starved — starved! On a few ounces of bread a
day no woman can work the 'Olliver' and prod the fire.
Her last whispers to n.a were, *I shall see you, dear, a great
painter yet; Jesu.; will let me look down and watch my boy.'
Ah, Sinfi Lovell! that makes you weep. It is long, long
since 1 ceased to weep at that. 'Whatsoever is not of faith
IS sm.

Rhona Boswell, down whose face also the tears were
streaming, nodded in a patronizing way to Wilderspin, and
said, "Reia, my mammy Hves in the clouds, and I'll tell her
to show you the Golden Hand, I will."

"From the moment when I left my mother in the grave,"

♦Child.
tBosom.

The Leader of the Aylwinians 193

said Wilderspir, "I had but one hope, that she who was
watching my endeavours might not watch in vain. Art
became now my reHgion: success in it my soul's goal. I
went to London; I soon began to develop a great power
of design, in illustrating penny periodicals. For years I
worked at this, improving in execution with every design,
but still unable to find an opening for a better class of work.
What I yearned for was the opportunity to exercise the gift
of colour. That I did possess this in a rare degree I knew.
At last I got a commission. Oh! the joy of painting that
first picture! My progress was now rapid. But I had
few purchasers till Providence sent me a good man and
great gentleman, my dear friend "

"This is a long-winded speech of yours, mon cher"
yawned Cyril. "Lady Sinfi is going to strike up with the
Welsh fiddle unless you get along faster,"

"Don't stop him," I heard Sinfi mutter, as she shook
Cyril angrily; "he's mighty fond o' that mother o' his'n,
an', if he's ever sich a born nataral, I likes him."

"I never exhibited in the Academy," continued Wilder-
spin, without heeding the interruption, "I never tried to
exhibit; but, thanks to the dear triend I ha\e mentioned, I
got to know the Master himself. People came to my poor
studio, and my pictures were bought from my easel as fast
as I could paint them. I could please my buyers, I could
please my dear friend, I could please the Master himself;
I could please every person in the world but one — myself.
For years I had been struggling with what cripples so
many artists — with ignorance — ignorance, Mr. Aylwin, of
the million points of oetail which must be understood and
mastered before ever the sweetness, the apparent lawless-
ness and abandonment of Nature can be expressed by Art.
But it was now, when I had conquered these, — it was now
that I was dissatisfied, and no man living was so miserable
as I. I dare say you are an artist yourself, Mr. Aylwin, and
will understand me when I say that artists — figure-painters,
I mean — are divided into tvvro classes — those whose natural
impulse is to paint men, and those who are sent into the
world expressly to paint women. My mother's death taught
me that my mission was to paint women, women whom
I — being the son of Mary Wilderspin — love and understand
better than other men, because my soul (once folded in her
womb) is purer than other men's souls."

[>'l >

I I !

1 94 Aylwin

"Is not modesty a Gorgio virtue, Lady Sinfi?" murmured
Cyril.

"Nothin' like a painter for thinkin' strong beer of his-
self," she replied; "but I likes him — oh, I likes him."

"No man whose soul is stained by fleshly desire shall
render in art all that there is in a truly beautiful woman's
face," said Wilderspin. "I worked hard at imaginative
painting; I worked for years and years, Mr. Aylwin, but
with scant success. It shames me to say that I was at last
discouraged. But, after a time, I began to feel that the
spirit-world was givixig me a strength of vision second only
to the Master's own, and a cunning of hand greater than
any vouchsafed to man since the death of Raphael. This
was once stigmatised as egotism; but 'Faith and Love,'
and the predella *Isis behind the Veil,' have told another
story. I did not despair, I say; for I knew the cause of
my failure. Two sources of inspiration were wanting to me
— that of a superlative subject and that of a superlative
model. For the first I am indebted to Philip Aylwin; for
the second I am indebted to——"

"A greater still, Miss Gudgeon, of Primrose Court," in-
terjected Cyril.

"For the second I'm indebted to my mother. And yet
something else was wanting," continued Wilderspin, "to
enable me for many months to concentrate my life upon one
work — the self-sacrificing generosity of such a friend as I
think no man ever had before."

"Wilderspin," said Cyril, rising, "the Duke of Little
Egypt sleeps, as you see. His Grace of the Pyramids
snores, as you hear. The autobiography of a man of
jjenius is interesting; but I fear that yours will have to be
continued in our next."

"But Mr. Aylwin wants to hear "

"He and our other idyllic friends are early to bed and
early to rise ; they have, in the morning, trout to catch for
breakfast, and we have a good way to walk to-night."

"That's just like my friend," said Wilderspin. "That's
my friend all over.

With this they left us, and we betook ourselves to our
usual evening occupations.

Next morning the two painters called upon as. Wilder-
spin sketched alone, while Sinfi, Rhona, Cyril and I went
trout-fishing in one of the numerous brooks.

fi?" murmured

Dse Court," in-

The Leader of the Aylwinians 195

"What do you think of my friend by this time?" said
Cyril to me.

"He is my fifth mystic," I rephed; "I wonder what the
sixth will be like. Is he really as great a painter as he takes
himself to be, or docs his art begin and end with flowery
words?"

"I bcHeve," said Cyril, pointing across to where Wilder-
spin sat at work, "that the strange creature under that white
umbrella is the greatest artistic genius now living. The
death of his mother by starvation has turned his head, poor
fellow, but turned it to good purpose: 'Faith and Love' is
the greatest modern picture in Europe. To be sure, he
has the advantage of painting from the finest model ever
seen, the lovely, if rather stupid. Miss Gudgeon, of Prim-
rose Court, whom he monopolises."

Cyril had already, during the morning, told me that my
mother, who was much out of health, was now staying in
London, where he had for the first time in his life met her
at Lord Sleaford's house. Notwithstanding their differ-
ences of opinion, my mother and he seemed to have formed
a mutual liking. He also told me that my uncle Cecil
Aylwin of Alvanley (who in this narrative must not, of
course, be confounded with another important relative,
Henry Aylwin, Earl of Aylwin) having just died and left
me the bulk of his property, I had been in much request.
I consequently determined to start for London on the fol-
lowing day, leaving my waggon in charge of Sinfi, who was
to sit to Wilderspin in the open air.

During this conversation Sinfi was absorbed in her fish-
ing, and wandered away up the brook, and I could see
that Cyril's eyes were following her with great admiration.

Turning to me and looking at me, he said, "Lucky dog!"
and then, looking again across at Sinfi, he said, "The finest
girl in England."

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v.— HAROUN-AL-RASCHID,
THE PAINTER

On reaching London and finding that it was necessary I
should remain there for some little time, I wrote to Cyril
to say so, sending some messages to Sinfi and her father
about my own living-waggon.

My mother was now staying at my aunt's house, whither
I went to call upon her shortly after my arrival in town.

Our meeting was a constrained and painful one. It was
my mother's cruelty to Winifred that had, in my view, com-
pletely ruined two lives. I did not know then what an
awfulstruggle was going on in her own breast between h
pride and her remorse for having driven Winnie away, to oe
lost in Wales. Afterwards her sad case taught me that
among all the agents of soul-torture that have ever stung
mankind to madness the scorpion Remorse is by far the
most appalling. But other events had to take place befnre
she reached the state when the scorpion stings to death all
other passions, even Pride and even Vanity, and reigns in
the bosom supreme. We could hardly meet without soften-
ing towards each other. She was most anxious to know
what had occurred to me since I left Raxton to search for
Winnie. I gave her the entire story from my first seeing
Winnie in the cottage, to my rencontre with her at Knockers'
Llyn. At this time she had accidentally been brought into
contact with Miss Dalrymple, who had lately received a
legacy and was now in better circumstances. Miss Dalrym-
ple had spoken in high terms of Winnie's intelligence and
culture, little thinking how she was making my mother feel
more acutely than ever her own wrongdoing. Knowing
that I was very fond of music, my mother persuaded me to

200

Aylwin

take her on several occasion^ to the opera and the theatre.
She with more difficulty persuaded me to consult a medical
man upon the subject of my insomnia; and at last I agreed,
though very reluctantly, to consult Dr. Mivart, late of Rax-
ton, who was now living in London. Mivart attributed
my ailment (as I, of course, knew he would) to hypochon-
dria, and I saw that he was fully aware of the cause. I
therefore opened my mind to him upon the subject. I told
him everything in connection with Winifred in Wales.
He pondered the subject carefully and then said:
"What you need is to escape from these terrible oscilla-
tions between hope and despair. Therefore I think it best
to tell you frankly that Miss Wynne is certainly dead. Even
suppose that she did not fall down a precipice in Wales,
she is, I repeat, certainly dead. So severe a fomi of
hysteria as hers must have worn her out by this time.
It is difficult for me to think that any nervous system could
withstand a strain so severe and so prolonged."

I felt the terrible truth of his words, but I made no
answer.

"But let this be your consolation," said he. "Her death
is a blessing to herself, and the knowledge that she is dead
will be a blessing to you."

"A blessing to me?" I said.

"I mean that it will save you from the mischief of these
alternations between hope and despair. You will remem-
ber that it was I who saw her in her first seizure and told
you of it. Such a seizure having lasted so long, nothing
could have given her relief but death or magnetic trans-
mission of the seizure. It is a grievous case, but what
concerns me now is the condition into which you yourself
have passed. Nothing but a successful effort on your part
to relieve your mind from the dominant idea that has dis-
turbed it can save you from — ^from "

"From what?"

"That drug of yours is the most dangerous narcotic of all.
Increase your doses by a few more grains and you will lose
all command over your nervous system — all presence of
mind. Give it up, give it up and enter Parliament."

I left Mivart in anger, and took a stroll through the
streets, trying to amuse myself by looking at the shop
windows and recalling the few salient incidents that were
connected with my brief experiences as an art student.

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 201

Hours passed in this way, until one by one the shops
were closed and oidy the theatres, public bars, and supper-
rooms seemed to be open.

I turned into a restaurant in the Haymarket, for I had
taken no dinner. I went upstairs into a supper-room, and
after I had finished my meal, taking a seat near the window,
I gazed abstractedly over the bustling, flashing streets,
which to me seemed far more lonely, far more remote, than
the most secluded paths of Snowdon. In a trouble such as
mine it is not Man but Nature that can give companionship.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I did not observe
whether I was or was not now alone in the room, till the
name of Wilderspin fell on my ear and recalled me to my-
self. I started and looked round. At a table near me sat
two men whom I had not noticed before. The face of the
man who sat on the opposite side of the table confronted
me.

If I had one tithe of that objective power and that instinct
for description which used to amaze me in Winifred as a
child, I could give here a picture of a face which the reader
could never forget.

If it was not beautiful in detail it was illuminated by an
expression that gave a unity of beauty to the whole. And
what was the expression? I can only describe it by saying
that it was the expression of genius ; and it had that impe-
rious magnetism which I had never before seen in any face
save that of Sinfi Lovell. But striking as was the face of
this man, I soon found that his voice was more striking
still. In whatever assembly that voice was heard, its in-
describable resonance would have marked it off from all
other voices, and have made the ear of the listener eager
to catch the sound. This voice, however, was not the one
that had uttered the name of Wilderspin. It was from his
companion, who sat opposite to him, with his great brc^ad
back, covered with a smari velvet coat, towards me, that
the talk was now coming. This man was smoking cigar-
ettes in that kind of furious sucking way which is charac-
teristic of great smokers. Much smoking, however, had
not dried up his skin to the consistence of blotting paper
and to the colour of tobacco ash as it does in some cases,
but tobacco juice, which seemed to ooze from his face like
perspiration, or rather like oil, had made his complexion of
a yellow-green colour, something like a vegetable marrow.

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Aylwin

Allhougli his face was as hairless as a woman's, there was
not a feature in it that was not niascuHne. Ahhou^ii his
clieek bones were liigli and his jaw of the mould which we
so often associate with the prizclightor, he hjoked as if he
miglit somehow be a gentleman. And when 1 j^ot for a
moment a full view of his face as he turned round, 1 thought
it showed power and intelligence, although his forehead
receded a good deal, a recession which was owing mainly to
the bone above the eyes. Power and intelligence too were
seen in every glance of his dark briglit eyes. In a few min-
utes Wilderspin's name was again uttered by this man, and
I found he was telling anecdotes of the eccentric painter-
telling them with great gusto and humour, in a loud voice,
quite careless of being overhead by me. Then followed
other anecdotes of other people — artists for the most part
— in which the names of Millais, Ruskin, Watts, Leighton,
and others came up in quick succession.

That he was a professional anecdote-monger of extraordi-
nary brilliancy, a raconteur of the very first order, was evi-
dent enough. I found also that as a story-teller he was
reckless and without conscience. He was, I thought, in-
venting anecdotes to amuse his companion, whose manifest
enjoyment of them rather weakened the impression that
his own personality had been making upon me.

After a while the name of Cyril Aylwin came up, and I
soon found the man telling a story of Cyril and a recent
escapade of his which I knew must be false. He then went
rattling on about other people, mentioning names which, as
I soon gathered, were those of female models known in
the art world. The anecdotes he told of these were mostly
to their disadvantage. I was about to move to another
table, in order to get out of earshot of this gossip, when the
name "Lady Sinfi" fell upon my ears.

And then I heard the other man — the man of the musical
voice — talk about Lady Sinfi with the greatest admiration
and regard. He wound up by saying, "By the bye, where
is she now? I should like to use her in painting my new
picture."

"She's in Wales; so Kiomi told me."

"Ah, yes! I remember she has an extraordinary passion
for Snowdon."

"Her passion is now for something else, though."

"What's that?"

iry passion

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 203

"A man."

"I never saw a girl so indifferent to men as Lady Sinfi."

"She is living at this moment as the mistress of a cousin
of Cyril Aylvvin."

My blood boiled with rage. I lost all control of myself.
I longed to feel his face against my knuckles.

"That's not true," I said in a rather loud voice.

He started up, and turned round, saying in a hectoring
voice, "What was that you said to me? Will you repeat
your words?"

"To repeat one's words," I said quietly, "shows a limited
vocabulary, so I will put it thus, — what you said just now
about Sinfi Lovell being tho mistress of Cyril Ay'vvin's
cousin is a lie."

"You dare to give nic the lie, sir? And what the devil do
you mean by listening to our conversation?"

The threatening look that he managed to put into his face
was so entirely histrionic that it made nic laugh outright.
This seemed to damp his courage more than if I had sprung
up and shown fight.

The man had a somewhat formidable appearance, how-
ever, as regards build, which showed that he possessed more
than averrge strength. It was the manifest genuineness
of my laugh that gave him pause. And when I sat with
my elbows on the table and my face between my palms,
taking stock of him quietly, he looked extremely puzzled.
The man of the musical voice sat and looked at me as
though under a spell.

"I am a young man from the country," I said to him. "To
what theatre is your histrionic friend attached? I should
like to see him in a better farce than this."

"Do you hear that, De Castro ?" said the other. "What is
your theatre?"

"If he is really excited," I said, "tell him that people
at a public supper-room should speak in a moderate tone
or their conversation is likely to be overheard."

"Do you hear this young man from the country, De
Castro?" said he. "You seem to be the Oraculum of the
hay-fields, sir," he continued, turning to me with a delight-
fully humorous expression on his face. "Have you any
other Delphic utterance?"

"Only this," I said, "that people who do not like being
given the lie should tell the truth."

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204 Aylwin

"May I be permitted to guess your Christian name, sir?
Is it Martin, perchance?"

"Yes," I repHed, "and my surname is Tupper." He then
got up and laid his hand on the raconteur's shoulder, and
said, "Don't be a fool, De Castro. When a man looks at
another as the author of the Proverbial Philosophy is looking
at you, he kiio*vs that he can use his fists as well as his pen."

"He gave me the lie. Didn't you hear?"

"I did, and 1 thought the gift as entirely gratuitous, mon
cher, as giving a scuttleful of coals to Newcastle."

The anecdote-monger stood silent, quelled by this man's
wit.

Then turning to me, the man of the musical voice said, "I
suppose you know something about my friend. Lady Sinfi ?"

"I do," I said, "and I am Cyril Aylwin's cousin, so per-
haps, as every word your friend has said about Sinfi Lovell
and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar."

A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his com-
panion overspread 1. is face.

"Certainly," he raid with a loud laugh. "You may call
him that, you may qualify the noun you have used with an
adjective if the author of the Proverbial Philosophy can think
of one that is properly descriptive and yet not too unparlia-
mentary. So you are Cyril Aylwin's cousin. I have heard
him," he said with a smile that he tried in vain to suppress,
"I h?ve heard Cyril expatiate on the various branches of the
Aylwin family."

"I belong to the proud Aylwins/' I said.

The twinkle in his eye made me adore him as he said —
"The proud Aylwins. A man, who in a world like this, is
proud and knows it, and is proud of confessing his pride,
always interests me, but I will not ask you what makes the
proud Aylwins proud, sir."

"I will tell you what makes me proud," I said ; "my great-
grandmother was a full-blooded Gypsy, and I am proud of
the descent."

He came forward and held out his hand and said, "It is
long since I met a man who interested me" — he gave a
sigh — "very long; and I hope that you and I may become
friends."

I grasped his hand and shook it warmly.

The anecdote-monger began talking at once about Sinfi,
Wilderspin and Cyril Aylwin, speaking of them in the most

an name, sir?

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 205

genial and affectionate terms. In a few minutes, without
withdrawing a word he had said about either of them, he
had entirely changed the spirit of every word. At first I
tried to resist his sophistry, but it was not to be resisted.
I ended by apologising to him for my stupidity in mis-
understanding him.

"My dear fellow," said he, "not a word, not a word. I
admired the way in which you stood up for absent friends.
Didn't you, D'Arcy?"

At this the other broke out into another mellow laugh.
"I did. How's your cousin, and how's Wilders^>in ?" he
said, turning to me. "Did you leave them well?"

We soon began, all three of us, to talk freely together.
Of course I was filled with curiosity about my new friends,
especially about the liar. His extraordinary command of
facial expression, coupled with the fact that he wore no
hair on his face, made me at first think he was a great actor;
but being at that time comparatively ignorant of the stage,
I did not attempt to guess what actor it was. After a while
his prodigious acuteness struck me more than even his
histrionic powers, and I began to ask myself what Old
Bailey barrister it was.

Turning at last to the one called D'Arcy, I said, "You are
an artist; you are a painter?"

"I have been trying for many years to paint," he said.

"And you?" 1 said, turning to his companion.

"He is an artist too," D'Arcy said, "but his line is not
painting — he is an artist in words."

■'A poet?" I said in amazement,

"A romancer, the greatest one of his time unless it be old
Dumas."

"A novelist?"

"Yes, but he does not write his novels, he speaks them."

De Castro, evidently with a desire to turn the coirversa-
tion from himself and his profession, said, pointing to
D'Arcy, "You see before you the famous painter Haroun-
al-Raschid, who has never been known to perambulate the
streets of London except by night, and in me you see
his faithful vizier."

It soon became evident that D'Arcy for some reason or
other had thoroughly taken to me — more thoroughly, I
thought, than De Castro seemed to like, for whenever
D'Arcy seemed to be on the verge of asking me to call

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206

Aylwin

at his studio, De Castro would suddenly lead the conversa-
tion off into another channel by means of some amusmg
anecdote. However, the painter was not to be defeated
in his intention ; in iced I noticed during the conversation
that although D'Arcy yielded to the sophistries of his com-
panion, he did so wilfully. While he forced his mind, as it
were, to accept those sophistries there seemed to be all the
while In his consciousness a perception that sophistries they
were, lie ended by giving me his address and inviting me
to call upon him.

"I am only making a brief stay in London," he said; "I
am working hard at a picture in the country, but business
just now calls me to London for a short time."

With this we parted at the door of .iie restaurant.

' S

It was through the merest accident that I saw these two
men agam.

One evening I had been dining with my mother and aunt.
I think I may say that I had now become entirely reconciled
to my mother. I used to call upon her often, and at every
call I could not but observe how dire was the struggle going
on within her breast between pride and remorse. She felt,
and rightly felt, that the loss of Winifred among the Welsh
hills had been due to her harshness in sending the stricken
girl away from Raxton, to say nothing of her breaking her
word with me after having promised to take my place and
watch for the exposure of the cross by the wash of the tides
until the danger was certainly past.

But against my aunt I cherished a stronger resentment
every day. She it was with her inferior intellect and insect
soul who had in my childhood prejudiced my n other against
me and in favour of Frank, because I showed signs of my
descent from Fenella Stanley while Frank did not. She it
was who first planted in my mother's mind the seeds of
prejudice against Winnie as being the daughter of Tom
Wynne.

The influence of such a paltry nature upon a woman of
my mother's strength and endowments had always aston-
ished as much as it had irritated me.

I the conversa-
sonie amusing
;o be defeated
E conversation
ies of his com-
his mind, as it
d to be all the
Dphistries they
id inviting me

1," he said; "I

, but business
»

taurant.

aw these two

ther and aunt,
cly reconciled
and at every
ruggle going
•se. She felt,
ig the Welsh
', the stricken
breaking her
ny place and
1 of the tides

resentment
ct and insect
3ther against
signs of my
not. She it
the seeds of
Iter of Tom

a woman of
ways aston-

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 207

I had not learnt then what I fully learnt afterwards, that
in this life it is mostly the dull and stupid people who
dominate the clever ones — that it is, in short, the fools who
govern the world.

I should, of course, never have gone to Belgrave Square
at all had it not been to see my mother. Such a common-
place slave of convention was my aunt, that, on the even-
ing I am now mentioning, she had scarcely spoken to me
(luring dinner, because, having been detained at the solici-
tors', I had found it quite impossible to go to my hotel to
dress for her ridiculous seven o'clock dinner.

When I found that my mother had actually taken this in-
ferior woman into her confidence in regard to my affairs
and told her all about Winnie and the cross, my dislike of
her became intensified, and on this evening my mother very
much vexed me in the drawing-; 00m by taking the cross
from a cabinet and saying to me :

"What is now to be done vv-ith this? All along the coast
there are such notions about its value that to replace it in
the tomb would be simple madness." I made no reply.
"Indeed," she continued, looking at the amulet as she might
have looked at a cobra uprearing its head to spring at her,
"It must really be priceless. And to think that all this

was to be buried in the coffin of ! It is your charge,

however, and not mine."

"Yes, mother," I said, "it is my charge"; and taking up
the cross I wrapped it in my handkerchief.

"Take the amulet and guard it well," she said, as I placed
it carefully in the breast pocket of my coat.

"And remember," said my aunt, breaking into the con-
versation, "that the true curses of the Aylwins are and al-
ways hrve been superstition and love-madness."

"I should have added a third curse, — pride, aunt," I
could not help replying.

"Henry," said she, pursing her thin lips, "you have the
obstinacy and the courage of your race, that is to say, you
have the obstinacy and the courage of ten ordinary men,
and yet a man you are not — a man you will never be, if
strength of character, and self-mastery and power to with-
stand the inevitable trials of life, go to the making of a
man."

"Pardon me, aunt; but such trials as mine are beyond
your comprehension."

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208

Aylwin

"Are they, boy?" said she. "This fancy of yours for an
insignificani. girl — this boyish infatuation which with any
other young man of your rank would have long ago ex-
hausted itself and been forgotten — is a passion that absorbs
your life. And I tremble for you: I tremble for the house
you represent."

But I saw by the expression on my mother's face that my
aunt had now gone too far. "Prue," she said, "your trem-
blings concerning my son and my family are, I assure you,
gratuitous. Such trembling as the case demands you nad
better leave to me. My hear*- tells me I have been very
wrong to that poor child, and I would give much to know
that she was found and that she was well."

I set out to walk to my hotel, wondering how I was to
while away the long night until sleep should come to relieve
me. Suddenly I remembered D'Arcy, and my promise to
call upon him. I changed my course, and hailing a hansom
drove to the address he had given me.

When I reached the door I found, upon looking at my
watch, that it was late — so late that I was dubious whether
I should ring the bell. I remembered, however, that he tolfi
me how very late his hours were, and I rang.

On sending in my card I was shown at once into the
studio, and after threading my way between some pieces of
massive furniture and pictures upon easels, I found D'Arcy
rolling lazily upon a huge sofa. Seeing that he was not
alone, I was about to withdraw, for I was in no mood to
meet strangers. However, he sprang up and introduced
me to his guest, whom he called Symonds, an elegant-
looking man in a peculiar kind of evening dress, who, as I
afterwards learnt, was one of Mr. D'Arcy's chief buyers.
This gentleman bowed stiffly to me.

He did not stay long; indeed, it was evident that the
appearance of a stranger somewhat disconcerted him.

After he was gone D'Arcy said, "A good fellow! One of
my most important buyers. I should like you to know him,
for you and I are going to be friends, I hope."

"He seems very fond of pictures," I said.

"A man of great taste, with a real love of art and
music."

In a little while after this gentleman's departure in came
De Castro, who had driven up in a hansom. I certainly saw
a flash of anger in his eyes as he recognised me, but it

)f yours for an
'^hich with any
; long ago ex-
)n that absorbs
I for the house

•'s face that my
d, "your trem-
:, I assure you,
nands you nad
ave been very
much to know

how I was to
:ome to relieve
my promise to
iling a hansom

looking at my
ibious whether
er, that he tolfi

once into the
some pieces of

found D'Arcy
at he was not
n no mood to
nd introduced
s, an elegant-
■ess, who, as I

chief buyers.

ident that the
ted him.
How! One of
to know him,

e of art and

rt'jre in came

certainly saw

zd me, but it

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 209

vanished like lightning, and his manner became cordiality
itself. Late as it was (it was nearly twelve), he pulled out
his cigarette case, and evidently intended to begin the even-
ing. As soon as he was told that Mr. Symonds had been in,
he began to talk about him in a disparaging manner.
Evidently his metier was, as I had surmised, that of a pro-
fessional talker. Talk was his stock-in-trade.

The night wore on and De Castro in the intervals of his
talk kept pulling out his watch. It was evident that he
wanted to be going, but was reluctant to leave me there.
For my part I frequently rose to go, but on getting a sign
from D'Arcy that he wished me to stay I sat down again.
At last D'Arcy said :

" You had better go now, De Castro, you have kept that
hansom outside for more than an hour and a half; and be-
sides, if you stay till daylight our friend here will stay
longer, for I want to talk with him alone."

De Castro got up with a laugh that seemed genuine
enough, and left us.

D'Arcy, who was still on the sofa, then lapsed into a
silence that became after a while rather awkward. He lay
there, gazing abstractedly at the fireplace.

"Some of my friends call me, as you heard De Castro
say the other night Haroun-al-Raschid, and I suppose I
am like him in some things. I am a bad ^^leeper, and to be
amused by De Castro when I can't sleep is the chief of
blessings. De Castro, however, is not vSO bad as he seems.
A man may be a scandal-monger without being really
malignant. I have known him go out of his way to do a
struggling man a service."

"You are a bad sleeper?" I said in a tone that proclaimed
at once that I was a bad sleeper also.

"Yes," said h^\ "and so are you, as I noticed the other
night. I can always tell. There is something in the eyes
when a man is a bad sleeper that proclaims it to me."

Then springing up from the divan and laying his hand
upon my shoulder, he said, "And you have a great trouble
at the heart. You have had some great loss the elTect of
which is sapping the very fountains of your life. We should
be friends. We must be friend" I asked you to call upon
me because we must be friends."

His voice was so tender that I was almost unmanned.

I will not dwell upon this part of my narrative; I will

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2IO

Aylwin

only say that I told him something of my story, and he told
me his.

I told him that a terrible trouble had unhinged the mind
of a young lady whom I deeply loved and that she had been
lost on the Welsh hills. I felt that it was only rig'ht that 1
should know more of him before giving him the more
intimate details connected with Winnie, myself, and the
secrets of my family. He listened to every word with the
deepest attention and sympathy. After a while he said :

"You must not go to your hotel to-night. A friend of
mine who occupies two rooms is not sleeping here to-night,
and I particularly wish for you to take his bed, so that I
can see you in the morning. We shall not breakfast to-
gether. My breakfast is a peculiarly irregular meal. But
when you wake ring your bedroom bell and order your
own breakfast ; afterwards we shall meet in the studio."

I did not in the least object to this arrangement, for I
found his society a great relief.

Next morning, after I had finished my solitary brep.kfast,
I asked the servant if Mr. D'Arcy had yet risen. On being
told that he had not, I went downstairs into the studio where
I had spend the previous evening. After examining v'.e pic-
tures on the walls and the easels, I walked to the window
and looked out at the garden. It was large, and so
neglected and imtrimmed as to be a veritable wilderness.
While I was marvelling why it should have been left in
this state, I saw the eyes of some animal staring at me
from the distance, and was soon astonished to see that they
belonged to a little Indian bull. My curiosity induced
me to go into the garden and look at the creature. He
seemed rather threatening at first, but after a while allowed
me to go up to him and stroke him. Then I left the Indian
bull and explored this extraordinary domain. It was full of
unkempt trees, including two fine mulberries, and sur-
rounded by a very high wall. Soon I came across an object
which, at first, seemed a little mass of black and white oats
moving along, but I presently discovered it to be a hedge-
hog. It was so tame that it did not curl up as I approached
it, but allowed me, though with some show of nervousness,
to stroke its pretty little black snout. As I walked about
the garden, I found it was populated with several kinds of
animals such as are never seen except in menageries or in

►ry, and he told

lagenes or in

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 211

the Zoological Gardens. Wombats, kangaroos, and the like,
formed a kind of happy family.

My love of animals led me to linger in the garden. When
1 returned to the house I found that D'Arcy had already
breakfasted, and was at work in the studio.

After greetmg me with the greatest cordiality, he said :

"No doubt you are surprised at my menagerie. Every
man has one side of his character where the child remains.
I have a love of animals which, I suppose, I may call a
passion. The kind of amusement they can afford me is like
none other. It is the self-consciousness of men and women
that makes them, in a general way, immensely unamusing.
I turn from them to the unconscious brutes, and often get
a world of enjoyment. To watch a kitten or t puppy play,
or the funny antics of a parrot or a cockatoo, or the wise
movements of a wombat, will keep me for hours from being
bored."

"And children," I said — "do you like children?"

"Yes, so long as they remain like the young animals —
until they become self-conscious, I mean, and that is very
soon. Then their charm goes. Has it ever occurred to you
how fascinating a beautiful young girl would be if she were
as unconscious as a young animal? What makes you
sigh?"

My thought had fiuwn to Winifred breakfasting with her
"Prince of the Mist" on Snowdon. And I said to myself.
"How he would have been fascinated by a sight like that!"

My experience of men at that time was so slight that the
opinion, then formed of D'Arcy as a talker was not of much
r ccount. But since then I have seen very much of men, and
I find that I was right in the view I took of his conversa-
tional powers. When his spirits were at their highest he
was without an equal as a wit, without an equal as a humor-
ist. He had more than even Cyril Aylwin's quickness of
repartee, and it was of an incompara:bly rarer quality. To
define it would be, of course, impossible, but I might per-
haps call it poetic fancy suddenly sitimulated at moments
by animal spirits into rapid movements — so rapid, indeed,
that what in slower movement would be merely fancy, in
him became wit. Beneath the coruscations of this wit a
rare and deep intellect was always perceptible.

His humour wa^ also so fanciful that it seemed poetry at
play, but here was the remarkable thing: although he was

212

Aylwin

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not unconscious of his other gifts, he did not seem to be in
the least aware that he was a humorist of the first order;
every jett d' esprit seemed to leap from him involuntarily,
like the spray from a fountain.

While he was talking he kept on painting, and I said to
him, "I can't understand how you can keep up a conversa-
tion while you are at work."

I took care not to tell him that I was an amateur painter
myself.

"It is only when the work that I am on is in some degree
mechanical that I can talk while at work. These flowers,
which were brought to me this morning for my use in
painting this picture, will very soon wither, and I can put
them into the picture without being disturbed by talk ; but
if I were at work upon this face, if I were putting dramatic
expression into these eyes, I should have to be silent."

He then went on talking upon art and poetry, letting fall
at every moment gems of criticism that would have made
the fortune of a critic.

After a while, however, he threw down the brush and said :

"Sometimes I can paint with another man in the studio;
sometimes I can't."

I rose to go.

"No, no," he said; "T don't want you to go, yet I don't
like keeping you in this musty studio on such a morning.
Suppose we take a stroll together."

"But you never walk out in the daytime."

"Not often; indeed, I may say never, unless it is to go to
the Zoo, or to Jamrach's, which I do about once in three
months."

"Jamrach's!" I said. "Why, he's the importer of animals,
isn't he? Of all places in London that is the one I should
should most like to see. If I can call myself anything at
all, it is a naturalist."

"We will go," said D'Arcy; and we left the house.

In Maud Street a hansom passed us ; D'Arcy hailed it.

"We will take this to the Bank," said he, "and then walk
through the East End to Jamrach's. Jump in."

As we drove oflf, the sun was shining brilliantly, and Lon-
don seemed very animated — seemed to be enjoying itself.
Until we reached the Bank our drive was through all the
most cheerful-looking and prosperous streets of London. It
acted like a tonic on me, and for the first time since my

•»>'>*»^

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Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 2 1 3

trouble I felt really exhilarated. As to D'Arcy, after we had
left behind us what he called the "stucco world" of the West
End, his spirits seemed to rise every minute, and by the
time we reached the Strand he was as boisterous as a boy
on a holiday.

On reaching the Bank we dismissed the hansom, and pro-
ceeded to walk to Ratcliffe Highway. Before reaching it I
was appalled at the forbidding aspect of the neighbourhood.
It was not merely that the unsavoury character of the streets
offended and disgusted me, but the locality wore a sinister
aspect which acted upon my imagination in the strangest,
wildest way. Why was it that this aspect fairly cowed me,
scared me? I felt that I was not frightened on my own
account, and yet when I asked myself why I was frightened
I could not find a rational answer.

As I saw the sailors come noisily from their boarding-
houses; as I saw the loafers standing at the street corners,
smoking their dirty pipes and gazing at us; as I saw the
tawdry girls, bare-headed or in flaunting hats covered with
garish flowers, my thoughts, for no conceivable reason, ran
upon Winnie more persistently than they had run upon her
since I had abandoned all hope of seeing her in Wales.

The thought came to me that, grievous as was her fate
and mine, the tragedy of our lives might have been still
worse.

"Suppose," I said, "that instead of being lost in the
Welsh hills she had been lost here!" I shuddered at the
thought.

Again that picture in the Welsh pool came to me, the
picture of Winnie standing at a street corner, offering
matches for sale. D'Arcy then got talking about Sinfi
Lovell and her strange superiority in every respect to the
few Gypsy women he had seen.

"She has," said he, "mesmeric power; it is only semi-
conscious, but it is mesmeric. She exercises it partly
through her gaze and partly through her voice."

He was still talking about Sinfi when a river-boy, who
was whistling with extraordinary brilliancy and gusto, met
and passed us. Not a word more of D'Arcy's talk did I
hear, for the boy was whistling the very air to which Winnie
used to sing the Snowdon song : —

I once did meet a lone little maid
At the foot of y Wyddfa the white.

litf ■'

!*;

li t ■

214 Aylwin

I ran aft'T the boy and asked him what tune he was
whistHng.

"What tune?" he said, "blowed if I know."

"Where did you hear it?" I asked.

"Well, there used to be a gal, a kind of a beggar gal, as
lived not far from 'ere for a little while, but she's gone away
now, and she used to sing that tune, I alius remember
tunes, but I never could make out anything of the words."

D'Arcy laughed at my eccentricity in running after the
boy to learn where he had got a tune. But I did not tell
him why.

After we had passed some way down Ratcliflfe Highway,
D'Arcy s^id, "Here we are then," and pointed to a shop, or
rather two shops, on the opposite side of the street. One
window was filled with caged birds; the other with speci-
mens of beautiful Oriental pottery and grotesque curiosities
in the shape of Chinese and Japanese statues and carvings.

My brain still rang with the air I had heard the river-boy
whistling, but I felt that I must talk about something.

"It is here that you buy your wonderful curiosities and
porcelain!" I said.

"Partly; but there is not a curiosity shop in London that
I have not ransacked in my time."

The shop we now entered reminded me of that Raxton
Fair which was so much associated with Winnie. Its chief
attraction was the advent of WombweH's menagerif. From
the first moment that the couriers of that august establish-
ment came to paste their enormous placards on the walls,
down to the sad morning when the caravans left the market-
place, Winnie and I and Rhona Boswell had talked "Womb-
well." It was not merely that the large pictures of the wild
animals in action, the more than brassy sound of the cracked
brass band, delighted our eyes and ears. Our olfactories
also were charmed. The mousy scent of the -animals mixed
with the scent of sawdust, which to adults was so objection-
able, was characterised by us as delicious. All these Womb-
well delights came back to me as we entered Jamrach's, and
for a time the picture of Winifred prevented my seeing the
famous shop. When this passed I saw that the walls of the
large room were covered from top to bottom with casres.
some of them full of wonderful or beautiful birds, and others
full of evil-faced, screeching monkeys.

While D*Arcy was amusing himself with a blue-faced rib-

3 J.

tune he was

n London that

blue-faced rib-

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 215

nosed baboon, I asked Mr. Jamrach, an extremely intelli-
jrcnt man, about the singing girl and the Welsh air. But
he could tell me nothing, and evidently thought I had been
hoaxed.

In a small case by itself was a beautiful jewelled cross,
which attracted D'Arcy's attention very much.

"This is not much in your line," he said to Jamrach. "This
is European."

"It came to me from Morocco," said Jamrach, "and it
was no doubt taken by a Morocco pirate from some Vene-
tian captive."

"It is a ruby cross," said D'Arcy, "but mixed with the
rubies there are beryls. The setting of the stones is surely
quite peculiar."

"Yes," said Jamrach. "It is the curiosity of the setting
more than the value c^ the gems which caused it to be sent
to me. I have offered it lo the London jewellers, but they
will only give me the market-price of the stones and the
gold."

While he was talking I pulled out of my breast pocket the
cross, which had remained there since I received it from my
mother the evening before.

"They are very much alike," said Jamrach; "but the
setting of these stones is more extraordinary than in mine.
And of course they are more than fifty times as valuable."

D'Arcy turned round to see what we were talking about,
when he saw the cross in my hand, and an expression of
something like awe came over his face.

"The Moonlight Cross of the Gnostics!" he exclaimed,
"you carry this about in your breast pocket ? Put it away,
put it away! The thing seems to be alive."

In a second, however, and before I could answer him,
the expression passed from his face, and he took the cross
from my hands and examined it.

"This is the most beautiful piece of jewel work I ever saw
in my life. I have heard of such things. The Gnostic art
of arranging jewels so that they will catch the moon-rays
and answer them as though the light were that of the sun,
is quite lost."

We then went and examined Jamrach's menagerie. I
found that one source of the interest D'Arcy took in animals
was that he was a believer in Baptista Porta's whimsical
theory that every human creature resembles one of the lower

216

Aylwin

animals, and he found a perennial amusement in seeing in
the faces of animals caricatures of his friends.

With a fund of humour that was exhaustless, he went
from cage to cage, giving to each animal the name of some
member of the Royal Academy, or of one of his own in-
timate friends.

On leaving Jamrach's he said to me, "Suppose we make
a day of it and go to the Zoo?"

I agreed, and we took a hansom as soon as we could get
one and drove across London towards Regent's Park.

Here the pleasure that he took in watching the move-
ments of the animals was so great that it seemed impossible
but that he was visiting the Zoo for the first time. I re-
membered, however, that he had told me in the morning
how frequently he went to these gardens.

But his interest in the animals was unlike my own, and I
should suppose unlike the interest of any other man. He
had no knowledge whatever of zoology, and appeared to
wish for none. His pleasure consisted in watching the curi-
ous expressions and movements of the animals and in
dramatising them.

On leaving the Zoo, I said, "The cross you were just now
looking at is as remarkable for its history as for its beauty.
It was stolen from the tomb of a near relative of mine. I
was under a solemn promise to the person upon whose
breast it lay to see that it should never be disturbed. But,
now that it has been disturbed, to replace it in the tomb
would, I fear, be to insure another sacrilege. I wonder
what you would do in such a case?"

He looked at me and said, "As it is evident that we are
going to be intimate friends, I may as well confess to you at
once tha^ I am a mystic."

"When did you become so?"

"When? Ask any man who has passionately loved d
woman and lost her; ask him at what moment mysticism
was forced upon him — at what moment he felt that he must
either accept a spiritualistic theory of the universe or go
mad; ask him this, and he will tell you that it was at that
moment when he first looked upon her as she lay dead, with
Corruplion's foul fingers waiting to soil and stain. What
are you going to do with the cross?"

"Lock it up as safely as I can," I said ; "what else is there
to do with it?"

in seeing in

Me we make

Haroun-al-Raschid, the Painter 217

He looked into my face and said, "You are a rationalist."
1 am.

"You do not believe in a supernatural world?"

"My disbelief of it," I said, "is something more than an
exercise of the reason. It is a passion, an angry passion.
But what should you do with the cross if you were in my
place?"

"Put it back in the tomb."

I had great difficulty in suppressing my ridicule, but I
merely said, "That would be, as I have told you, to insure
its being stolen again."

"There is the promise to the dead man or woman Cii
whose breast it lay."

"This I intend to keep in the spirit like a reasonable man
— not in the letter like "

"Promises to the dead must be kept to the letter, or no
peace can come to the bereaved heart. You are talking to
a man who knozvs!"

"I will commit no such outrage upon reason as to place a
priceless jewel in a place where I know it will be stolen."

"You will replace the cross in that tomb."

As he spoke he shook my hands warmly, and said, "An
revoir. Remember, I shall always be delighted to see you."

It was not till I saw him disappear amongst the crowd
that I could give way to the laughter which I had so much
difficulty in suppressing. What a relief it was to be able to
do this!

;lse is there

1."

Pr?

fU t

*i*k.',

VI.

The Song of Y Wyddfa

1 Rl

f III ^L

i i'

VI.— THE SONG OF Y WYDDFA

After this I had one or two interviews with our soHcitor in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, upon important family matters con-
nected with my late uncle's property.

* * * j|e ^ * •

I had been one night to the theatre with my mother and
my aunt. The house had been unusually crowded. When
the performance was over, we found that the streets were
deluged with riin. Our carriage had been called some time
before it drew up, and v/e were standing under the portico
amid a crowd of impati'int ladies when a sound fell or
seemed to fall on my ears which stopped for the moment the
very movements of life. Amid the rattle of wheels and
horses' feet and cries of messengers about carriages aud
cabs, I seemed to distinguish a female voice singing:

" I once did meet a lone little maid

At the foot of y Wyddfa the white ;
Oh, lissome her feet as the mountain hind,
And darker her hair than the night ! "

It was the voice of Winifred singing as in a dream.

I heard my aunt say :

"Do look at that poor girl singing and holding out her
little baskets ! She must be crazed to be offering baskets
for sale in this rain and at this time of night."

I turned my eyes in the direction in which my aunt was
looking, but the crowd before me prevented my seeing the
singer.

"She is gone, vanished," said my aunt sharply, for my
eagerness to see made me rade.

"What was she like?" I asked.

"She was a young slender girl, holding out a bunch of
small fancy baskets of woven colours, through which the
rain was dripping. She was dressed in rags, and through

222

Aylwin

//'

Ml V '

•I f \

I I

the rags snone, here and there, patches of her shoulders;
and she wore a dingy red handkerchief round her head. She
stood in the wet and mud, beneath the lamp, quite uncon-
scious apparently of the bustle and confusion around her."

Almost at the same moment our carriage drew up. I
lingered on the step as long as possible. My mother made
a sign of impatience at the delay, and I got into the carriage.
Spite of the rain, I put down the window and lec.ned crtit.
I forgot the presence of my mothet and aunt. I forgot
everything. The carriage moved on.

"Winifred!" I gasped, as the certainty that the voice was
hers came upon ne.

And the dingy London night became illuminated with
scrolls of fire, whose blinding, blasting scripture seared my
eyes till I was fain to close them: "Let his children be
vagabonds, and beg their bread: let them seek it also out of
desolate places."

So rapidly had the carriage rolled through the rain, and
so entirely had my long pain robbed me of all presence of
mind, that, by the time I had recovered from the paralysing
shock, we had reached Piccadilly Circus. I pulled the check-
string.

"Why, Henry!" said my mother, who had raised the
■window, "what are you doing? And what has made you
turn so pale?"

My aunt sat in indignant silence.

"Ten thousand pardons," I said, as I stepped out of the
carriage, and shook hands with them. "A sudden recollec-
tion — important papers unsecured at my hotel — business in
— ^in Lincoln's Inn Fields. I will call on you in the
morning."

And I reeled down the pavement towards the Haymarket.
When I was some little distance from the carriage, I took to
my heels and hurried as fast as possible towards the theatre,
utterly regardless A the people, I reached the spot breath-
less. I stood for a moment staring wildly to right and left
of me. Not a trace of her was to be seen. I heard a thin
voice from my lips, that did not seem my own, ask a police-
man, who was now patrolling the neighbourhood, if he had
seen a basket-girl singing.

"No," said the man, "but I fancy you mean the Essex
Street Beauty, don't you? I haven't seen her for a lonp^
while now, but her dodge used to be to come here on rainy

■ ' .'

r shoulders;
2r head. She
quite uncon-
around her."
drew up. I
nother made
the carriage.
I lecned (Ait.
It. I forgot

he voice was

ninated with

re seared my

children be

it also out of

the rain, and
I presence of
le paralysing
ed the check-

d raised the
IS made you

;d out of the

den recoUec-

— business in

you in the

Hay market,
ge, I took to
s the theatre,
spot breath-
ight and left
heard a thin
ask a police-
od, if he had

n the Essex
r for a long
lere on rainy

The Song of Y Wyddfa 223

nigli*s, and stand bare-headed and sing and sell just when
the theatres was a-bustin'. She gets a good lot, I fancy, by
that dodge."

"The Essex Street Beauty?"

"Oh, I thought you know'd p'raps. She's a strornary
pretty beggar-wench, with blue eyes and black hair, as used
to stand at the corner of Essex Street, Strand, and the
money as that gal got a-holdin' out her matches and a-sayin'
texes out of the Bible must ha' been strornary. So the
Essex Street Beauty's bin about here agin on the rainy-
night dodge, 'es she? Well, it must have been the fust time
for many a long day, for I've never seen her now for a long
time. She couldn't ha' stood about here for many minutes ;
if she had I must ha' seen her."

I staggered away from him, and passed and repassed the
spot many times. Then I extended my beat about the
neighbouring streets, loitering at every corner where a bas-
ket-girl or a flower-girl might be likely to stand. But
no trace of her was to be seen. Meantime the rain had
ceased.

All the frightful stories that I had heard or read of the
kidnapping of girls came pouring into my mind, till my
blood boiled and my knees trembled. Imagination was
stinging me to life's very core. Every few minutes I would
pass the theatre, and look towards the portico.

The night wore on and I was unconscious how the time
passed. It was not till day-break that I returned to my
hotel, pale, weary, bent.

I threw myself upon my bed: it scorched me.

I could not think. At present I could only see — see what?
At one moment a Sviualid attic, the starlight shining through
patched window-panes upon a lonely mattress, on which a
starving girl was lying; at another moment a cellar damp
and dark, in one corner of which a youthful hgure was
crouching ; and then (most intolerable of all !) a flaring gin-
palace, where, among a noisy crowd, a face was looking
wistfully on, while coarse and vulgar men were clustering
with cruel, wolfish eyes around a beggar-girl. This I saw
and more — a thousand things more.

It was insupportable. I rose and again paced the street.

3|e He * )|c He *

When I called upon my mother she asked me anxious
questions as to what had ailed me the previous night. See-

■ :/wi'.',i:9r -* : ;vrw,-'-. 5^.3

224 Aylwin

ing, however, that I avoided replying to them, she left me
after a while in peace.

"Fancy," said m> aunt, who was writing a letter at a little
desk between two windows, — "fancy an Aylwin pulling the
clieck-string, and then, with ladies in the carriage, and the
rain pouring "

During that day how many times I passed in front of the
theatre I cannot say; but at last I thought the very men in
the shops must be observing me. Again, though I half
poisoned myself with my drug, I passed a sleepless night.
The next night was passed in almost the same manner as
the previous one.

i!:; :/j. !

II.

From this time I felt working within me a great change. A
horrible new thought got entire possession of me. Wherever
I went I could think of nothing but — the curse. I scorned
the monstrous idea of a curse, and yet I was always think-
ing about it. I was always seeking Winifred — always spec-
ulating on her possible fate. I saw no one in society.

My time was now largely occupied with wandering about
the streets of London. I began by exploring the vici^'ty
of the theatre, and day after day used to thread the aJ'eys
and courts in that neighbourhood. Then I took the eastern
direction, and soon became familiar with the most squalid
haunts.

My method was to wander from street to street, looking
at every poorly-dressed girl I met. Often I was greeted
with an impudent laugh, that brought back the sickening
mental pictures I have mentioned ; and often I was greeted
with an angry toss of the head and such an exclamation as,
"What d'ye take me for, staring like that?"

These peregrinations I used to carry far into the night,
and thus, as I perceived, got the character at my hotel of a
wild young man. The family solicitor wrote to me again
and again for appointments which I could not give him.

It had often occurred to me that in a case of this kind the
police ought to be of some assistance. One day I called
at Scotlrnd Yard, saw an official, and asked his aid. He

;he left me

The Song of Y Wyddfa 225

listened to my story attentively, then said: "Do you come
from the missing party's friends, sir?"

"I am her friend," I answered — 'her only friend."

"I mean, of course, do you represent her father or mother,
or any near relative?"

"She is an orphan ; she has no relatives," I said.

He looked at me steadily and said: "I am sorry, sir,
that neither I nor a magistrate could do anything to aid
you."

"You can do nothing to aid me?" I asked angrily.

"I can do nothing to aid ycu, sir, in identifying a young
woman you once heard sing in the streets of London, with
a lady you saw once on the top of Snowdon."

As I was leaving the oflfice, he said: "One moment, sir.
I don't see how I can take up this case for you, but I may
make a suggestion. I have an idea that you would do well
to pursue inquiries among the Gypsies."

"Gypsies!" I said with great heat, as I left the oflfice. "If
you knew how I had already 'pursued inquiries* among the
Gypsies, you would understand how barren is your sugges-
tion."

Weeks passed in this way. My aunt's ill-health became
rather serious : my mother too was still very unwell. I after-
wards learnt that her illness was really the result of the dire
conflict in her breast between the old passion of pride and
the new invader, remorse. There were, no doubt, many dis-
cussions between them concerning me. I could see plainly
enough they both thought my mind was becoming un-
hinged.

One night, as I lay thinking over the insoluble mystery of
Winifred's disappearance, I was struck by a sudden thought
that caused me to leap from my bed. What could have led
the oflficial in Scotland Yard to connect Winifred with
Gypsies? I had simply told him of her disappearance on
Snowdon, and her reappearance afterwards near the theatre.
Not one word had i said to him about her early relations
with Gypsies. I was impatient for the daylight, in order
that I might go to Scotland Yard again. When I did so
and saw the official, I asked him without preamble what had
caused him to connect the missing girl I was seeking with
the Gypsies.

"The little fancy baskets she was selling," said he. "They
are often made by Gypsies."

, t

226

Aylwin

"Of course they are," I raid, hurrying away. "Why did I
not think of this?"

In fact I had, during our wanderings over England and
Wales, often seen Sinfi's sister Videy and Rhona Boswell
weaving such baskets. Winifred, after all, mig'ht be among
the Gypsies, and the crafty Videy Lovell might have some
mysterious connection with her; for she detested me as
much as she loved the gold "balansers" she could wheedle
out of me. Moreover, there were in England the Hungarian
Gypsies, with their notions about demented girls, and the
Lovells, owing to Sinfi's musical proclivities, were jusi: now
much connected with a Hungarian troupe.

i h

if - ^

"Why did I

England and
lona Boswell
^t be among
tit have some
tested me as
ould wheedle
le Hungarian
yirls, and the
vere jusi: now

VII.

Sinfi's Dukkeripen

,i I

m vi

" '

1 '

1 '^^

VII.— SINFI'S DUKKERIPEN

The Gypsies I had never seen since leaving them in Wales,
and I knew that by this time they were either making their
circuit of the English fairs or located in a certain romantic
spot called Gypsy Dell, near Rington Manor, the property
of my kinsman Percy Aylwin, whither they often went after
the earlier fairs were over.

The next evening I went to the Great Eastern Railway
statio'i, and taking the traii^ to Rington I walked to Gypsy
Dell, where I found the Lovells and Boswells.

Familiar as I was with the better class of Welsh Gypsies,
the camp here was the best display of Romany well-being I
had ever seen. It would, indeed, have surprised those who
associate all Gypsy life with the squalor which in England,
and especially near London, marks the life of the mongrel
wanderers who are so often called Gypsies. In a lovely
dingle, skirted by a winding, willow-bordered river, and
dotted here and there with clumps of hawthorn, were ranged
the "living-waggons" of those trading Romanies who had
accompanied the "Gryengroes'* to the East Anglian and
Midland fairs.

Alongside the waggons was a single large brown tent that
for luxuriousness might have been the envy of all Gyspy-
dom. On the hawthorn bushes and the grass was spread,
instead of the poor rags that one often sees around a so-
called Gypsy encampment, snowy linen, newly washed.
The ponies and horses were scattered about the Dell
feeding.

I soon distinguished Sinfi's commanding figure near that
gorgeous living-waggon of "orange-yellow colour with red
window-blinds" in which she had persuaded me to invest my
money at Chester. On the foot-board sat two urchins of the

mm^miHmmmm

I 1

< *

^11'!:

|i .

I I

.. ij

230

Ay 1 win

Lovcll family, "making believe" to drive imaginary horses,
and yelling with all their might to Rhona Boswell, whose
laugh, musical as ever, showed that she enjoyed the game
as much as the children did. Sinti was standing on a patch
of that peculiar kind of black ash which burnt grass makes,
busy with a fire, over which a tea-kettle was hanging from
the usual iron kettle-prop. Among the ashes left by a pre-
vious fire her bantam-cock Pharaoh was busy pecking,
scratching, and calling up imaginary hens to feast upon his
imaginary "finds." I entered the Dell, and before Sinfi saw
me I was close to her.

She was muttering to the refractory fire as though it
were a live thing, and asking it why it refused to burn be-
neath the kettle. A startled look, partly of pleasure and
partly of something like alarm, came over her face as she
perceived me. I drew her aside and told her all that had
happened in regard to Winifred's appearance as a beggar
in London. A strange expression that was new to me over-
spread her features, and I thought I heard her whisper to
herself, "I will, I will."

"I knowed the cuss 'ud ha' to ha' its way in the blood,
like the bite of a sap" [snake], sh mrmured to herself.
"And yit the dukkeripen on Snowc. ..aid, clear and plain
enough, as they'd surely marry at last. What's become o'
the stolen trushel, brother — ^the cross?" she inquired aloud.
"That trushel will ha' to be given to the dead man agin,
an' it'll ha' to be given back by his chavo [child] as sworeto
keep watch over it. But what's it all to me?" she said in a
tone of suppressed anger that startled me. "I ain't a
Gorgie."

"But, Sinfi, the cross cannot be buried again. The reason
I have not replaced it in the tomb, — the reason I never will
replace it there, — is that the people along the coast know
now of the existence of the jewel, and know also of my
father's wishes. If it was unsafe in the tomb when only
Winnie's father knew of it, it would be a thousandfold more
unsafe now."

"P'raps that's all the better for her an' you : the new thief
takes the cuss."

"This is all folly," I replied, with the anger of one strug-
gling against an unwelcome half-belief that refuses to be
dismissed. "It is all moonshine-madness. I'll never do it,
— not at least while I retain my reason. It was no doubt

inary horses,
swell, whose
ed the game
g on a patch
grass makes,
anging from
eft by a pre-
isy pecking,
;ast upon his
)re Sinii saw

IS though it
to burn be-

ileasure and

face as she

all that had

as a beggar
to me over-

r whisper to

n the blood,
d to herself.
:ar and plain
's become o*
[uired aloud.
1 man agin,
] as swore to
she said in a
"I ain't a

The reason

I never will

coast know

also of my

' when only

ndiold more

he new thief

f one strug-
ifuses to be
never do it,
is no doubt

Sinfi's Dukkeripen

231

partly for safety as well as for the other reason that my
father wished the cross to be placed in the tomb. It will
be far safer now in a cabinet than anywhere else."

"Reia," said Sinfi, "you told me wonst as your great-
grandmother was a Romany named F'enclla Stanley. I
iiave axed the Scollard about her, and what do you think
he says? He says that she were my great-grandmother
too."

"Good heavens, Sinfi! Well, I'm proud of my kins-
woman."

"And he says that Fenella Stanley know'd more about
the true dukkerin, the dukkerin of the Romanies, than any-
body as were ever heerd on."

"She seems to have been pretty superstitious," I said,
"by all accounts. But what has that to do with the cross?"

"You'll put it in the tomb again."

"Neverr

"Fenella Stanley will see arter that."

"Fenella Stanley ! Why, she's dead and dust "

"That's what I mean; that's why she can make you do it,
and will."

"Well, well! I did not come to talk about the cross;
I want to have a quiet word with you about another
matter."

She sprang away as if in terror or else in anger. Then
recovering herself she took the kettle from the prop. J fol-
lowed her to the tent, which, save that it was made of brown
blanket, looked more like a tent on a lawn than a Gypsy-
tent. All its comfort seemed, however, to give no great de-
light to Videy, the cashier and female financier-general of
the Lovell family, who, in a state of absor'bed untidiness,
sitting at the end of the tent upon a palliasse covered with
a counterpane of quilted cloth of every hue, was evidently
occupied in calculating her father's profits and losses at the
recent horse-fair. The moment Videy saw us she hurriedly
threw the coin into the silver tea-pot by her side, and put it
beneath the counterpane, with that instinctive and unneces-
sary secrecy which characterised her, and made her such
an amazing contrast both to her sister Sinfi and to Rhona
Boswell.

After Panuel had received me in his usual friendly man-
ner, we all sat down, partly inside the tent and partly out-
side, around the white table-cloth that had been spread upon

232

Aylwin

the grass. The Scollard took no note of me, he had no eyes
for any one but Rhona Boswell.

When tea was over Sinfi left the camp, and strode across
the Dell towards the river. I followed her.

i (

''L.I

'■^ ' II '

II.

It was not till we reached a turn in the river that is more
secluded than any other — a spot called "Gypsy Ring," a
lovely little spot within the hollow of birch trees and gorse
— that she spoke a few words to me, in a constrained tone.
Then I said, as we sat down upon a green hillock within
the Ring, "Sinfi, the baskets my aunt saw in Winnie's
hand when she was standing in the rain were of the very
kind that Videy makes."

"Oh, that's what you wanted to say !" said she ; "you think
Videy knows something about Winnie. But that's all a
fancy o' yourn, and it's Oi no use looking for Winnie any
more among the Romanies. Even supposin' you did hear
the Welsh gillie — and I think It was all a fancy — you can't
make nothin' out o' them baskets as your aunt seed. Us
Romanies don't make one in a hundud of the fancy baskets
as is sold for Gypsy baskets in the streets, and, besides,
the hawkers and costers what buys 'em of us sells 'em agin
to other hawkers and costers, and there ain't no tracin'
on 'em."

I argued the point with her. At last I felt convinced that
I was again on the wrong track. By this time the sun had
set, and the stars were out. I had noticed that during
our talk Sinfi's attention would sometimes seem to be dis-
tracted from the matter in hand, and I had observed her
give a little start now and then, as though listening to
something in the distance.

'What are you listening to?" I inquired at last.

'Reia," said Sinfi, "I've been a-listenin' to a v'ice as no-
body can't hear on'y me, an' I've bin a-seein' a face peepin'
atween the leaves o' the trees as nobody can't see on'y me;
my mammy's been to me, I thought she would come here.
They say my mammy's mammy wur buried here, an' she
vvur the child of Fenella Stanley, an' that's whv it's called
Gypsy Ring. The moment I sat down in this Ring a mullo

Sinfi's Dukkeripen

233

f ffl

[spirit] come and whispered in my ear, but I can't make out
whether it's my mammy or Fenella Stanley, and I can't
make out what she said. It's hard sometimes for them as
has to gnaw their way out o' the groun' to get their words
out clear.-' Howsomever, this I do know, reia, you an*
me must part. I fek as we must part when we was in Wales
togither last time, and now I knows it."

"Part, Smfil Not if I can prevent it."

"Reia," replied Sinfi, emphatically, "when I've wonst
made up my mind, you know it's made up for good an' alL
When us two leaves this 'ere Ring to-night, you'll turn your
ways and I shall turn mine."

I thought it best to let the subject drop. Perhaps by
the time /^e had left the Ring this mood would have passed.
After a minute or so she said :

"You needn't see no fear about not manyin' Winifred
Wynne. You must marry her; your dukkeripen on Snow-
don didn't show itself there for nothink. When you two
was a-settin' by the pool, a-eatin' the breakfiss, I was
a-lookin' at you round the corner of the rock. I seed a little
kindlin' cloud break away and go floatin' over your heads,
and then it shaped itself into what us Romanies calls the
Golden Hand. You know what the Golden Hand means
when it comes over two sweethearts? You don't believe it?
Ask Rhona Boswell! Here she comes a-singin' to herself.
She's trying to get away from that devil of a Scollard as
says she's bound to marry him. I've a good mind to go
and give him a left-hand body-blow in the ribs and settle
him for good and all. He means misdhief to the Tarno
Rye, and Rhona too. Brother, I've noticed for a long while
that the Romany blood is a good deal stronger in you than
the Gorgio blood. And now mark my words, that cuss o'
your feyther's '11 work itself out. You'll go to his grave and
you'll jist put that trushul back in that tomb, and arter that
and not afore, you'll marry Winnie Wynne."

Sinfi's creed did not surprise me: the mixture of guile and
simplicity in the Romany race is only understood by the few
who know it thoroughly : the race whose profession it is to
cheat by fortune-telling, to read the false "dukkeripen" as
beinp^ ".c^ood enough for the Gorgios," believe profoundly in
Nature's symbols; but her bearing did surprise me.

* Some Romanies think that spirits rise from the ground.

,*, 1

234

Aylwin

"Your dukkeripen will come true," said she; "but mine
won't, for I won't let it."

"And what is yours?" I asked.

"1 nat's nuther here nor there."

Then she stood again as though listening to something,
and again I thought, as her lips moved, that I heard her
whisper, "I will, I will."

III.

I HAD intended to go to London at once after leaving Gypsy
Dell, but something that Sinfi told me during our interview
impelled me to go on to Raxton Hall, which was so near.
The fact that Sinfi was my kinswoman opened up new and
exciting vistas of thought.

I understood now what was that haunting sense of recog-
nition which came upon me when I first saw Sinfi at the
wayside inn in Wales. Day by day had proofs been pour-
ing in upon me that the strain of Romany blood in my
veins was asserting itself with more and more force. Day
by day I ihad come to realise how closely, though the main
current of my blood was English, I was affined to the
strange and mysterious people among whom I was now
thrown — the only people in these islands, as it seemed to
me, who would be able to understand a love-passion like
mine. And there were many things in the great race of
my forefathers which I 'had found not only unsympathetic
to me, but deeply repugnant. In Great Britain it is the
Gypsies alone who understand nature's supreme cho'*m, and
enjoy her largesse as it used to be enjoyed in those remote
times described in Percy Ayl win's poems before the Children
of the Roof invaded the Children of the Open Air, before
the earth was parcelled out into domains and ownerships as
it now is parcelled out. In the mind of the Gorgio, the most
beautiful landscape or the most breezy heath or the loveliest
meadow-land is cut up into allotments, whether of fifty
thousand acres or of two roods, and owned by people. Of
ownership of land the Romany is entirely unconscious. The
landscape around him is part of nature herself, and the
Romany on his part acknowledges no owner. No doubt he
yields to force majeure in the shape of gamekeeper or con-

W k

Sinfi's Dukkeripen

235

stable, but that is because he has no power to resist it.
Nature to him is as free and unowned by man as it was
to the North American Indian in his wigwam before the
invasion of the Children of the Roof.

During the time that I was staying in Flintshire and near
Capel Curig, rambling through the dells or fishing in the
brooks, it was surprising how soon the companionship of a
Gorgio would begin to pall upon me. And here the Cymric
race is just as bad as the Saxon. The same detestable habit
of looking upon nature as a paying market garden, the same
detestable inquiry as to who was the owner of this or that
glen or waterfall, was sure at last to make me sever from
him. But as to Sinfi, her attitude towards nature, thoug'h it
was only one of the charms that endeared her to me, was
not the least of them. There was scarcely a point upon
which :he and I did not touc'h.

And what about her lack of education? Was that a draw-
back? Not in the least. The fact that she knew nothing
of that traditional ignorance which for ages has taken the
name of knowledge — that record of the foolish cosmogonies
upon which have been built the philosophies and the social
systems of the blundering creature Man — the fact that she
knew nothing of these gave an especial piquancy to every-
thing she said. I had been trying to educate myself in the
new and wonderful cosmogony of growth which was first
enunciated in the sixties, and was going to be, as I firmly
believed, the basis of a new philosophy, a new system of
ethics, a new poetry, a new everything. But in knowledge
of nature as a sublime consciousness, in knowledge of the
human heart, Sinfi was far more learned than I. And be-
lieving as I did that education will in the twentieth century
consist of unlearning, of unlading the mind of the trash
previously called knowledge, I could not help ieeling that
Sinfi was far more advanced, far more in harmony than I
could hope to be with the new morning of Life of which
we are just beginning to see the streaks of dawn.

*T must go and see Fenella's portrait," I said, as I walked
briskly towards Raxton.

When I reached Raxton Hall I seemed to startle the but-
ler and the servants, as though I had come from the other
world.

I told the butler that I should sleep there that night, and
then went at once to the picture gallery and stoou before

i \

if!

236

Aylwin

Reynold's famous picture of Fenella Stanley as the Sibyl.
The likeness to Sinfi was striking. How was it that it had
not previously struck me more forcibly? The painter had
evidently seized the moment when Fenella's eyes expressed
that look of the seeress which Sinfi's eyes, on occasion, so
powerfully expressed. I stood motionless before it while
the rich, warm light of evening bathed it in a rosy radiance.
And when the twilight shadows fell upon it, and when the
moon again lit it up, I stood there still. The face seemed
to pass into my very being, and Sinfi's voice kept singing
in my ears, "Fenella Stanley's dead and dust, and that's
why she can make you put that cross in your feyther's
tomb, and she will, she will."

I left the picture and went into the library: for I be-
thought me of that sheaf of Fenella's letters to my great-
grandfather which he had kept so sacredly, and which had
come to me as representative of the family. My previous
slight inspection of them had shown me what a wonderful
woman she was, how full of ideas the most original and the
most wild. The moment a Gypsy-woman has been taught
to write there comes upon her a passion for letter-writing.

Nothing could be more striking than the contrast be-
tween the illiterate locutions and the eccentric orthography
of Fenella's letters and the subtle remarks and speculations
upon the symbols of nature, — ^the dukkeripen of the woods,
the streams, the stars, and the winds. But when I came to
analyse the theories of man's place in nature expressed in
the ignorant language of this Romany heathen, they
seemed to me only another mode of expressing the mysti-
cism of the religious enthusiast Wilderspin, the more learned
and philosophic mysticism of my father, and the views of
D'Arcy, the dreamy painter.

As I rode back to London, I said to myself, "What
change has come over me? What power has been grad-
ually sapping my manhood? Why do I, who was so self-
reliant, long now so passionately for a friend to whom to
unburthen my soul — one who could give me a sympathy as
deep and true as that I got from Sinfi Lovell, and yet the
sympathy of a mind unclouded by ignorant superstitions?"

With the exception of D'Arcy, whose advice as to the
disposal of the cross had proclaimed him to be as super-
stitious as Sinfi herself, not a single friend had I in all
London. Indeed, besides Lord Sleaford (a tall, burly man

I] mm

Sinfi's Dukkcripcn

237

with the springy movement of a prize-fighter, with blue-
grey eyes, thick, close-cropped hair, and a flaxen mous-
tache, who had lately struck up a friendship with my
mother) I had not even an acquaintance. Cyril Aylwin,
whom I had not seen since we parted in Wales, was now on
the Continent with Wilderspin. Strange as it may seem,
I looked forward with eagerness to the return of this light-
hearted jester. Cyril's sagacity and knowledge of the
world had impressed me in Wales; but his cynical attitude,
whether genuine or assumed, towards subjects connected
with deep passion, had prevented my confiding in him. He
must, I knew, have gathered from Sinfi, and from other
sources, that I was mourning the loss of a Welsh girl in
humble hfe; but during our very brief intercourse in Wales
neither of us had mentioned the matter to the other. Now,
however, in my present dire strait I longed to call in the
aid of his penetrative mind.

\rn

VIII,

Isis as Humourist

i
i

fri

; 1 If

VIII.— ISIS AS HUMOURIST

On reaching London I resumed my wanderings through
the London streets. Bitter as these wanderings were, my
real misery now did not begin until I got to bed. Then
began the terrible struggle of the soul that wrestles with its
ancestral fleshly prison — that prison whose warders are the
superstitions of bygone ages. "Have you not seen the
curse literally fulfilled?" ancestral voices of the blood —
voices Romany and Gorgio — seemed whispering in my
ears. "Have you not heard the voice of his daughter upon
whose head the curse of your dead father has fallen a
beggar in the street, while not all your love can succour
her or reach her?"

And then my soul would cry out in its agony, "Most
true, Fenella Stanley — most true, Philip Aylwin; but be-
fore I will succumb to such a theory of the universe as
yours, a theory which reason laughs at and which laughs at
reason, I will die — die by this hand of mine ; this flesh that
imprisons me in a world of mocking delusion shall be de-
stroyed, but first the symbol itself of your wicked, cruel old
folly shall go."

I would then leap from my bed, light a candle, unlock
my cabinet, take out the cross, and holding it aloft prepare
to dash it against the wall, when my hand would be arrested
by the same ancestral voices, Romany and Gorgio, whisper-
ing in my ears and at my heart :

"If you break that amulet, how shall you ever be able to
see what would be the effect upon Winnie's fate of its
restoration to your father's tomb?"

And then I would laugh aloud and mock the voices of
Fenella Stanley and Philip Aylwin and millions of other
voices that echoed or murmured or bellowed through half a

r '

242 Aylwin

million years, echoed or murmured or bellowed from Eu-
ropean halls and castles, from Gypsy tents, from caves of
palaeolithic man.

"How shall you stay the curse from working in the blood
of the accursed one?" the voices would say. And then I
would laugh again till I feared the people in the hotel would
hear me and take me for a maniac.

But then my aunt's picture of a beggar-girl standing in
the rain would fill my eyes and the whispers would grow
louder than the voice of the North Sea in the March wind:
"Look at tliat. How dare you leave undone anything, how-
soever wild, which might seem to any one — even to ?n
illiterate Gypsy, even to a crazy mystic — a means of finding
Winifred? What is the meaning of the great instinct which
has always conquered the soul in its direst need — which has
always driven man when in the grip of unbearable calamity
to believe in powers that are unseen? What though that
scientific reason of yours tells you that Winifred's mis-
fortunes have nothing to do with any curse? what though
your reason fells you that all these calamities may be read
as being the perfectly natural results of perfectly natural
causec? Is the voice of man's puny reason clothed with
such authority that it dares to answer his heart, which
knows nothing but that it bleeds? The terrible facts of
the case may be read in two ways. With an inscrutable
symmetry these facts may and do fit in with the universal
theory of the power of the spirit-world to execute a curse
from the grave. Look at that beggar in the street! How
dare you ignore the theory of the sorrowing soul, the logic
of the lacerated heart, even though your reason laughs it
to scorn?"

And then at last my laughter would turn to moans, and,
replacing the cross in the cabinet, I would creep back to
my bed ashamed, like a guilty thing — ashamed before
myself.

But the more I felt at my throat the claws of the ancestral
ogre Superstition, the more enraged I became with myself
for feeling them there. And the anger against my ancestors'
mysticism grew with tlie growing consciousness that I was
rapidly yielding to the very same mysticism myself. And
then i would get up again and take from my escritoire the
shea' of Fenella Stanley's letters Avhich I had brought from
Raxton, and read again those stories about curses, such

Isis as Humourist

243

rom Eu-
caves of

he blood
u then I
el would

nding in
\\d grow
"h wind:
ng, how-
'n to rn
f finding
ct which
hich has
calamity
ugh that
d's mis-
t though

be read
■ natural
led with
t. which

facts of
icrutable
uiiversal

a curse
How

le logic

lughs it

ns, and,
back to
before

ncestral
myself
cestors'
t I was
And
ire the
It from
s, such

as t^iat about the withering of a Romany family under a
flead man's curse which Winnie had described to me that
night on the sands.

II.

I WAS delighted to be told by Sleaford, whom I met one
afternoon in Piccadilly, that Cyril had returned to London
within the last few days. "He is appointed artist-in-chief
of the new comic paper, The Caricaturist," said Sleaford,
"and is in great feather. I have just been calling upon him."

"The very man I want to see," I replied.

Sleaford thereupon directed me to Cyril's studio. "You'll
find him at work," said he, "doin' a caricature of Wilder-
spin's great picture, 'Faith and Love.' Mother Gudgeon is
sittin' as his model. He does everything from models, you
know."

"Mouther Gudgeon?"

"A female costermonger that he picked up somewhere in
the slums, the funniest woman in London; haw! haw! I
promise you she'll make you laugh when Cvril draws her
out."

He then began to talk upon the subject vVhich interested
him above all others, the smartness and swiftness of his
yacht. "I am trying to persuade your mother and aunt
to go for a cruise with me, and ^ think I shall succeed."

He directed me to the studio and we parted.

I found Cyiil in a large and lofty studio in Chelsea, filled
with the curiously carved black furniture of Bombay, mixed,
for contrast, with a few Indian cabinets of carved and
fretted ivory exquisitely wrought. He greeted me cordially.
The walls were covered with Japanese drawings. I began
by asking him about The Caricaturist.

"Well," said he, "now that the House of Commons has
become a bear-garden, and t'other House a wa-w-work show,
and the intellect and culture of the country are leaving
poHtics to dummies and cads, how can the artistic mind con-
descend to caricature the political world — a world that has
not only ceased to be intelligent, but has even ceased to be
funny? The quarry of The Caricaturist will be literature,
science, and art. Instead of wasting artistic genius upon

244 Aylwin

such small fry as premiers, diplomatists, and cabinet min-
isters, our cartoons will be caricatures of the pictures of
Millais, Leipfhton, Burnc-Jones, Rossctti, Madox Brown,
Ilolman Hunt, Watts, Sandys, Whistler, Wilderspin: our
letterpress will be Aristophanic parodies of Tennyson,
Browning, Meredith, Arnold, Morris, Swinburne; p^ame
worth flying at, my boy! The art-world is in a dire funk,
I can teil you, for the artistic epidermis has latterly grown
genteel and thin."

Already I was beginning to ask myse!f whether it was
possible to make a confidant of this inscrutable cynic. "You
are fond of Oriental things?" I said, wishing to turn the
subject. I looked round at the Chinese, Indian, and Jap-
anese monstrosities scattered about the room.

"That," said he, pointing to a picture of a woman (appar-
ently drunk) who was amusing herself by chasing butter-
flies, while a number of broad-faced, mischievous-looking
children were teasing her — "that is the masterpiece of Ho-
kusai. The legend in the corner is 'Kiyo-ja cho ni tawamur-
cru,' which, according to the lying Japanese scholars, means
nothing more than *A cracked woman chasing butterflies.*
It was left for me to discover that it represents Yoka, the
goddess of Fun, sportively chasing the butterfly souls of
men, w'hile the urchins, the little Yokas, are crying, *Ma!
you're screwed.' "

"But what are these quaint figures?" I asked, pointing to
certain drawings of an obese Japanese figure, grinning with
lazy good-hi'nour above several of the caJbinets.

"Hotel, th'^ fat god of enjoyment."

"A Japanese god?" I asked.

"Yes, nothing artistic is quite right now unless it has a
savour of blue mould or Japan. Wonderful people, the
Japanese, to have discovered the Jolly Hotel. And here is
Hotel's wife, the goddess-queen Yoka herself — the real
masquerader behind that mystic veil which has so enveloped
and bemuddled the mind of poor Wilderspin. She is to
figure in the first number of The Caricaturist."

He pointed to an object I had only partially observed: a
broad-faced burly woman of about forty-five years of age. in
an eccentric dress of Japanese silks, standing on the model-
throne between two lay figures. "Good heavens!" I ex-
claimed, "why, she's alive."

"An' kickin', sir/' said a voice that was at once strident

t min-
ires of
3rown,
n: our
inyson,
p^ame
e funk,
grown

it was

"You

irn the

id Jap-

(appar-
butter-
ooking
of Ho-
.vamur-
tneans
erflies.*
ka, the
ouls of
r, 'Ma!

ting to
g with

has a
|le, the

lere is
je real
jeloped
is to

red: a

ige, in

lodel-

I ex-

Iriderit

Isis as Humourist

245

and unctuous. Owing to the almond shape of her sparkling
black eyes and tlie flatness of her nose, tlic bridge of which
iiad been broken (most Hkcly in childhood), she looked
absurdly like a Japanese woman, save that upon her
quaintly-cut mouth, curving slightly upwards horse-shoe
fashion, there was that twitter of humorous alertness which
is perhaps rarely seen in perfection except among the lower
orders, Celtic or Saxon, of London. Her build was that of
a Dutch fisherwoman. The set of her head on her muscular
neck showed her to be a woman of immense strength. But
still more was her great physical power indicated by her
hands, the fingers of which seemed to have a grip like that
of an eagle's claws.

I then perceived upon an easel a large drawing. "I have
not seen Wilderspin's 'Faith and Love/ " I said; "but this,
I see, must be a caricature of it."

In it the woman figured as Isis, grinning beneath a veil
held over her head by two fantastically-dressed figures — one
having the face of Darwin, the other the face of Wilderspin.

"Allow me," said Cyril, "to introduce you to the Goddess
Yoka,thc true Isis or goddess of bohemianism and universal
joke, who, when she had the chance of making a rational
and common-sense universe, preferred amusing herself
with flamingoes, dromedaries, ring-tailed monkeys, and
men."

"Pardon me," I said ; "I merely called to see you. Good
afternoon."

"Allow me," said he, turning to the woman, "to introduce
to your celestial majesty Mr. Henry Aylwin, a kinsman or
mine, whose possessions in Little Egypt are as brilliant
(judging from the colours of his royal waggon) as are his
possessions in Philistia."

The woman made me a curtsey of much gravity.

"And allow me to introduce yow," he said, turning to me,
"to the real original Natura Mystica, — ^she who for ages
upon ages has been trying by her funny goings-on to teach
us that 'the Principlmn hylarchicum of the cosmos' (to use the
simple phraseology of a great spiritualistic painter) is the
benign principle of joke."

The woman made me another curtsey,

"You forget your exalted position, Mrs. Gudgeon," said
Cyril; "when a mystic goddess-queen is so condescending
as to curtsey she should be careful not to bend too low.

246

Aylwin

■ \ It

Man is a creature who can never with safety be treated with
too much respect."

"We's all so modest in Primrose Court, that's the wust on
us," replied the woman. "But, Muster Cyril, sir, I don't
think you've noticed that the queen's t'other eye's gfot dry
now."

Cyril gravely poured her out a glass of foaming ale from a
bottle that stood upon a little Indian bamboo-table, and
handed it to her carefully over the silks, saying to me :

"Her majesty's elegant way of hinting that she likes to
wet both eyes!"

Such foolery as this and at such a time irritated me sorely;
but there was no help for it now. Whether I should or
should not open to him the subject that had taken m^-
thither, I must, I saw, let him have his humour till the
woman vras dismissed.

"And now, goddess," said he, "while I am doing justice
to the design of your nose "

"You can't do that, sir," interjected the creature, "it's sich
a beauty, ha ! ha ! 1 alius say that when I do die, I shall die
a-larfin'. They calls me 'Jokin' Meg' in Primrose Court. I
shall die a-larfin*, they say in Primrose Court, and so I shall
— unless I die a-cryin'," she added in an utterly different
and tragic voice which gieatly struck me.

"While I am trying to do justice to that beautiful bridge
you must tell my friend about yoarself and your daughter,
and how you and she first became two shining lights in chc
art world of London."

"You makes me blush," said the woman, "au' blow' me if
blushm' ain't bin an' made t'other eye dry."

She then took another glass of ale, grinned, shook her-
self, as though preparing for an effort, and said :

"Well, you must know, sir, as my name's Meg Gudgeon,
leasew^ays that was my name till my darter chrissened me
Mrs Knocker, and I lives in Primrose Court, Great Queen
Street, and my reg'lar perfession is a-sellin' coffee 'so airly
in the mornin',' and Pve got a darter as ain't quite so 'ansom
as me, bein' the moral of her father as is over the water a
livin' in the fine 'Straley. And you must know, sir, that
one 'ot summer's day there comes a knock at our door as
sends my 'eart into my mouth and makes me cry out, 'The
coppers, by jabbers!' and when I goes down and opens the
door, lo! and behold, there Stan's a chap wi' great goggle

Isis as Humourist

•47

'^.^

me if
hcr-

lueen
airly
isom

iter a
that
)r as

I The

Is the

eyes, dressed all in shiny black, jest like a Quaker." (Here
she made a noise betAveen a laugh and a cough.) "I fa.ilus say
that when I do die I shall die a-larfin' — unless I die a-cry-
in V she added, in the same altered voice that had struck me
before.

"Well, mother," said Cyril, "and what did the shiny
Quaker say?"

"They calls me 'Jokin' Meg' in Primrose Court. The
shiny Quaker,* 'e axes if my name is Gudgeon. 'Well,' sez
I, 'supposin' as my name is Gudgeon, — 1 don't say it is,'
says 1, 'but supposin' as it is, — what then?' s?; •- ^ 'But is
that your name?' sez 'e. 'Supposin' as it wa ," ■ ...: I, 'what
then?' 'Will you answer my simple kervestiji?" :>jz 'e. 'Is
your name Mrs. Gudgeon, or ain't it not?' sez 'e. 'An' will
you answer tny simple kervestion, Mr. Shiny Quaker?' sez I.
'Supposin' my name was Mrs. Gudgeon, — I c'-tn't say it is,
but supposin' it was, — what's that to you?' sez I, for I
thought my poor boy Bob what lives in the country had got
into trouble agin and had sent for me."

"Go on, mother," said Cyril, "what did the shiny Quaker
say then?"

" 'Well then,' sez 'e, 'if your name is Mrs. Gudgeon, there
is a pootty gal as is, I am told, a-livin' along o' you.' 'Oh,
oh, my fine shiny Quaker gent,' sez I, an' I flings the door
wide open an' there I Stan's in the doorway, 'it's her you
wants, is it?' sez I. 'And pray what does my fine shiny
Quaker gent want Avi' my darter?' 'Your darter?' sez 'e,
and opens 'is mouth like this, and shets it agin like a rat-
trap. 'Yis, my darter,' sez I. 'I s'pose,' sez I, 'you think she
ain't 'ansom enough to be my darter. No more she ain't,'
sez I ; 'but she takes arter her father, an' werry sorry she is
for it,' sez I. 'I want to put her in the way of 'arnin' some
money,' sez 'e. 'Oh, do you?' sez I. 'How very kind! I'm
sure it does a pore woman's 'eart good to see how kind you
gents is to us pore women's pcotty darters,' sez I, — 'even
shiny Quaker gents as is generally so quiet. You're not the
fust shiny gent,' sez I, 'as 'ez followed 'er 'um, I can tell you,
— not the fust by a long way; but up to now,' sez I, 'I've
alius managed to send you all away with a flea in your ears,
cuss you for a lot of wicions warments, young and old; sez

I, 'an' if you don't get out,' sez I 'My good woman, you

mistake my attentions,' sez 'c, 'Oh, no, I don't,' sez I, 'not
a bit on it. It's sich old sinners as you in your shiny black

248

Aylwin

:ii 1!

}if

■ I ■ II

coats,' sez I, 'as I never do mistake, and if you don't git out
there's a pump-'andle behind this werry door, as my poor
boy Bob brought up from the country for me to sell for

him ' 'My good woman,' sez 'e, 'I am a hartist,' sez 'e.

'What's that?' sez I. 'A painter,' sez 'e. 'A painter, air
you? you don't look it,' sez I. 'P'raps it's holiday time
with ye,' sez I, 'and that makes you look so varnishy. Well,
and what do painters more nor any other trade want with
pore women's pootty darters?' sez I, — 'more nor plumbers
nor glaziers, nor bricklayers, for the matter of that?' sez I.
'But I ain't a 'ouse-painter,' sez 'e ; 'I paints picturs, and I
want this gal to set as a moral,' sez 'e. 'A moral; an'
what's a moral?' sez I. 'You ain't a-goin' to play none o'
your .liny-coat larks wi' my pootty darter,' sez I. *I wants
to p nt her portrait,* sez 'e, 'an' then put it in a pictur'.'
'Oh, sez I, 'you wants to paint her portrait 'cause she's such
a pooty gal, an' then you wants to make believe you drawed
it out of your own *ead, an' sell it,' sez I. 'Oh, but you're
a downy one, you are, an' no mistake,' sez I. 'But I like
you none the wuss for that. I likes a downy chap, an' I
don't see no objection to that ; but how much will you give
to paint my pooty darter?' sez I. 'P'raps I'd better come
in,* sez he. 'P'raps you 'ad, if we're a-comin' to bisniss,'
sez I; 'so jest make a long leg an* step over them dirty-
nosed child'n o' Mrs. Mix's, a-settin' on my doorstep, an* I
dessay we siha'n't quarrd over a 'undud p'un' or two,' sez I.
An' then I ibust out a-iarfin* agin — ^I shall die a-larfin*."
And then she added suddenly in the same tone of sadness,
"if I don't die a-cryin'."

"Really, mother," said Cyril, "it is very egotistical of you
to interrupt your story with prophesies about the mood in
which you will probably shuffle off the Gudgeon coil and
take to Gudgeon wings. It is the shiny Quaker we want to
know about."

"And then the shiny Quaker comes in," said the woman,
"and I shets the door, being be'ind 'im, and that skears
'im for a moment, till I bust out a-larfin' : 'Oh, you needn't
be afeard,' sez I ; — 'when we burgles a Quaker in Primrose
Court we never minces 'im for sossingers, 'e's so 'ily in 'is
flavour.' Well, sir, to cut a long story short, I agrees to
take my pootty darter to the Quaker gent's studero ; an' I
takes 'er nex' day, an' 'e puts her in a pictur. But afore
long," continued the old woman, leering round at Cyril, "lo !

an'

■' I

lan,

;ars

In't

rose

'is

' I

[ore

'lo!

Isis as Humourist

249

and behold, a young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise
(I don't want to be pussonal, an' so I sha'n't tell his name),
'c comes into that studero one day when I was a-settlin' up
with the Quaker gent for the week's pay, an' he sets an' ad-
mires me, till I sets an' blushes as I'm a-blushin' at this
werry moment ; an' when I gits 'ome, I sez to Polly Onion
(that's a pal o' mine as lives on the ground floor), I sez,
'Poll, bring my best lookin'-glass out o' my bowdore, an'
let's have a look at my old chops, for I'm blowed if there
ain't a young swell, p'raps a young lord in disguise, as 'ez
fell 'ead over ears in love with me.' And sure enough when
I goes back to the studero the werry nex' time, my young
swell 'e sez to me, 'It's your own pootty face as I wants for
my moral. I dessay your darter's a stunner — I ain't seen
her yit — but she cain't be nothin' to you.' An' I sez to 'im,
'In course she ain't, for she takes arter her father's family,
pore gal, and werry sorry she is for it.' "

At this moment a servant entered and said Mr. Wilder-
spin was waiting in the hall.

All hope having now fled of my getting a private word
with Cyril that afternoon, I was preparing to slip away ; but
he would not let me go.

"I don't want Wilderspin to know about the caricature till
iv is finished," whisperf;d he to me ; "so I told Bunner never
to let him come suddenly upon me. You'd better be off,
mother," he said to the old woman, "and come again to-
morrow."

She bustled up and, throwing off the Japanese finery, left
the room, while Cyril removed the drawing from the easel
and hid it away.

"Isn't she delightful?" ejaculated Cyril.

"Delightful? What, that old wretch ? All that interests
me in her is the change in her voice after she says she wiU
die laughing."

"Oh," said Cyril, "she seems to be troubled with a
drunken son in the country somewhere, who is always get-
ting into scrapes. Wilderspin's in love with her daughter,
a wonderfully beautiful girl, the finding of whom at the very
moment when he was in despair for the want of the right
model gave the final turn to his head. He thinks she was
sent to him from Paradise by his mother's spirit ! He does,
I assure you."

"Wilderspin in love with a model !"

250

Aylwin

"Oh, not d la Raphael."

"If you think Wilderspin to be in love with any woman,
you little know what love is," I exclaimed. "He is in love
with his art and with that beautiful memory of his mother's
self-sacrifice which has shattered his reason, but built up his
genius. Except as a means toward the production of those
pictures that possess him, no model is anything more to him
than his palette-knife. Shall you be alone this evening?"

"This evening I dine at Sleaford's. To-morrow I am due
in Paris."

Wilderspin, who had now entered the studio, seemed
genuinely pleased to see me again, and told me that in a few
days he should be able to borrow "P'aith and Love" of its
owner for the purpose of beginning a replica of it, and
hoped then to have the pleasure of showing it to me.

"I observed Mrs. Gudgeon in the hall," said he to Cyril.
"To think that so unlovely a woman should, through an
illusion of the senses, seem to be the mere material mother
of her who was sent to me from the spirit-world in the very
depths of my despair ! Wonderful are the ways of the spirit-
world. Ah, Mr. Aylwin, did it never occur to you how im-
portant is the expression of the mo^al from whom you
work?"

"I am not a painter," I said ; "only an amateur," trying to
stop a conversation that might run on for an hour.

"It has never occurred to you ! That is strange. Let me
read to you a passage upon this subject just published in
The Art Review, written by the great painter D'Arcy."

He then took from Cyril's table a number of The Art
Rcviezv, and began to read aloud : —

"It is a curious thing that not only the general public, but the art
connoisseurs and the writers upon firt, although they know full well
how a painter goes to work in painting a picture, speak and write as
though they thought that the head of a beautiful woman was drawn
from the painter's inner consciousness, instead of from the real
woman who sits to him as a model. Notwithstanding all the tech-
nical excellence of Raphael, his extraordinary good luck in finding
the model that suited his genius had very much to do with his
enormous success and fame. And with all Michael Angelo's in-
stinct for grandeur, if he had not been equally lucky in regard to
models, he could never adequately have expressed that genius. It is
impossible to give vitality to the painting of any head unless the
artist has nature before him; this is why no true judge of pictures
was ever deceived as to the diflFerence between an original and a
copy. It stands to reason that in every picture of a head, howso-
ever the model's feature may be idealised, Nature's own handiwork
and mastery must dominate."

'> i

Isis as Humourist

251

Art

he art
Iwell
ite as
rawn
real
tech-
[iding
1 his
s in-
d to
It is
the
Itures
nd a
wso-
ork

Here Cyril gently look the magazine from Wilderspin's
hand, but did not silence him. "As I told you in Wales,"
said lie to me, ''I had an abundance of imagination, but I
wanted some model in order to realise it. I could never
meet a face that came anything nigh my own ideal of ex-
pression as the purely spiritual side of the beauty of woman ;
and until I did that I knew that I should achieve nothing
whereby the world might recognise a new power in art. In
vain did I try to idealise such faces as did not please me.
And this was because nothing could satisfy me but the per-
fect type of expression which not even Leonardo nor any
other painter in the world has found — the true Romantic
type."

"I understand you, Mr. Wilderspin," 1 said. 'This per-
fect type of expression you eventually found "

'*In the daughter," said Cyril, "of the goddess Gudgeon."

"By the blessing of Mary Wilderspin in heaven," said
Wilderspin.

And then the talk between the two friends ran upon ar-
tistic matters, and I heard no more, for my mind was wan-
dering up and down the London streets.

Wilderspin and I left the house together. As we walked
along, side by side, I said to him : "You spoke just now of
your mother's blessing. Am I really to understand that
you in an age like this believe in the power of human bless-
ings and human curses ?"

"Do I believe in blessings and curses, Mr. Aylwin ?" said
Wilderspin, solemnly. "You are asking me whether I am
with or without what your sublime father calls the 'most
powerful of the primary instincts of man.' He tells us in
The Veiled Queen that 'Even in this material age of ours
there is not a single soul that does not in its inner depths
acknowledge the power of the unseen world. The most
hardened materialist,' says he, 'believes in what he calls
sometimes "luck" and sometimes "fortune." ' Let me ad-
vise you, Mr. Aylwin, to study the voice of your inspired
father. I will send a set of his writings to your hotel to-
morrow. And, Mr. Aylwin, my duty compels me to speak
very plainly to you upon a subject that has troubled me
since I had the honour of meeting you in Wales. There is
but one commandment in the decalogue to which a distinct
promise of reward is attached ; it is that which bids us
honour our fathers and our mothers. Good-day, sir."

• i

i! i

IfL

; i

1 llf

jlj

\^(;>'S

'ill

,«

r , I

IX.

The Palace of Nin-ki-Gal

■!■;

I';

F, I ■ V

' ii

!|:

'<'

IX.— THE PALACE OF
NIN-KI-GAL

Shortly after this I met my mother at our solicitor's ofifice
according to appointment. As she was on the eve of de-
parting for the Continent, it was necessary that various
family matters should be arranged. On the day following,
as I was about to leave my hotel to call at Cyril's studio,
rather doubtful, after the frivolity I had lately witnessed,
as to whether or not I should unburden my heart to such a
man, he entered my room in company with Wilderspin, the
latter carrying a parcel of books.

"I have brought your father's works," Wilderspin said.

"Thank you very much," I replied, taking the books.
"And when am I to call and see your picture? Have you
yet got it back from the owner?"

" 'Faith and Love' is now in my studio," he replied ; "but
I will ask you not to call upon me yet for a few days. I
hope to be too busily engaged upon another picture to af-
ford a moment to any one save the model — that is," he
added with a sigh, "should she make her appearance."

"A picture of his called 'Ruth and Boaz,' " interposed
Cyril. "Wilderspin is repainting the face from that favour-
ite model of his of whom vou heard so much in Wales. But
the fact is the model is rather out of sorts at this moment,
and Wilderspin is fearful that she may not turn up to-day.
Hence the melancholy you see on his face. I try to con-
sole him, however, by assuring him that the daughter of a
mamma with such a sharp appreciation of half-crowns as
the lady you saw at my studio the other day is sure to turn
up in due time as sound as a roach."

Wilderspin shook his head gravely.

256

Aylwin

% . !

^ ^'^ ■ ;

"Good heavens !" 1 muttered, "when am I to hear the
last of painters' models?" J'lien turning to Wilderspin 1
said:

"This is the model to v.l.om you feel so deeply indebted?"

"Deeply indebted, indeed!'' exelaimed he in a fervid tone,
taking a chair and playing with his hat between his knees,
in his previous fashion when beginning one of his mono-
logues. "When I began 'Faith and Love' I worked for
weeks and months and years, having but one thought, how
to give artistic rendering to the great idea of the Renas-
cence of Wonder in Art symbolised in the vignette in your
father's third edition. I was very poor then; but to live
upon bread and water and paint a great picture, and know
that you are being watched by loving eyes above, — there is
no joy like that. I found a model — a fine and a beautiful
woman, the same magnificent blonde who sat for so many
of the Master's great pictures. For a long time my work
dehghted me; but after awhile a suspicion, and then a sick-
ening dread, came upon me that all was not well with the
picture. And then the withering truth broke in upon me,
the scales fell frr 1 my eyes — the model's face was beautiful,
but it was not ri^nt ; the expression I wanted was as far off
as ever; there was but one right expression in the world,
and that I could not find. Ah ! is there any pain like that of
discovering that all the toil of years has been in vain, that
the best you can do — the best that the spiritual world per-
mits you to do — is as far off the goal as when you began ?"

"And so you failed after all, Mr. W^ilderspin ?" I said,
anxious to get him away so that I might talk to Cyril alone
upon the one subject at my heart.

"I told the model I should want her no more," said
Wilderspin, "and for two days and nights I sat in the studio
in a dream, and could get nothing to pass my lips but bread
and water. Then it was that Mary Wilderspin, my mother,
remembered me, blessed me — sent me a spiritual body "

"For God's sake !" I whispered to Cyril, "take the good
madman away ; you don't know how his prattle harrows me
just now."

"Ah ! never," said Wilderspin, "shall I forget that sunny
morning when was first revealed to me "

"My dear fellow," said Cyril, "to tell the adventures of
that sunny morning would, as I know from experience, keep
us here for the next three hours. So, as I must not miss my

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal 257

train, and as you cannot spare a second from 'Ruth and
Boaz/ coh 1 along."

While I was accompanying them through the corridors of
the hotel, Cyril said: "You say he is not in love with his
model? Don't you see the sulky looks he gives me? I
was the innocent cause of an unlucky catastrophe with her.
I'll tell you about that, however, another time. G jod-bye;
I'm off to Paris."

"When you return to Lr«t^don," I said to Cyril, "I wish to
consult you upon a matter that concerns me deeply."

TI.

On re-entering my room, as I stood and gazed at my fath-
er's book, The Veiled Queen, I understood something about
that fascination which the bird feels who goes fluttering
to the serpent's jaws from sheer repulsion. "Am I indeed,"
I asked myself, "that same Darwinian student who in Swit-
zerland not long since turned over in scorn these pages,
where are enshrined superstitious stories as gross as any of
those told in Fenella vStanley's ignorant letters?"

In a chapter on "Love and Death" certain passages
showed me how great must have been the influence of this
book on Wilderspin, and I no longer wondered at what
the painter had told me in Wales. I will give one passage
here, because it had a strange effect on my imagination, as
will be soon seen :

"There is an old Egyptian tablet of Nin-ki-gal, the Queen of
Death, whose abode the tablet thus describes: —

'To the house men enter, but cannot depart from;
To the road men go, but cannot return;
The abode of darkness and famine,
Where earth is their food — their nourishment clay.
Light is not seen; in darkness they dwell:
Ghosts, like birds, flutter their wings there;
On the gate and the gate-posts the dust lies undisturbed.'

Another part of the inscription describes Nin-ki-gal on her throne
scattering over the earth the 'Seeds of Life and Death,' and chant-
ing her responses to the Sibyl, and to the prayers of the shape*
kneeling around her, the dead gods and the souls of all the sons ot
men. And I often wonder whether my ancestress, Fenella Stanley,

2s8

Aylwin

had any traditional knowledge of the Queen of Death when she
had her portrait painted as the Sibyl. But whether she had or not,
I never think of this Egyptian Sibyl kncclinf? before Niii-ki-gal,
surrounded by gods and men. without seein^t in the Sibyl's face
the grand features of Fenella Stanley.

The SiiiVL.

What answer. () Nin-ki-gal?
What ansv.'or, C) Nin-ki-gal?
Have pity, O Queen of Queens!

NlN-KI-CAL.

Life's fountain flows.
And still the drink is Death's;

Life's garden blows,
And still 'tis Ashtoreth's;*

But all is Nin-ki-gal's.
I lent the drink of Day

To man and beast;
I lent the drink of Day

To gods for least;
I poured the rivers of Night

On gods surceased:
Their blood was Nin-ki-gal's.

The Sibyl.

What sowest thou. Nin-ki-gal?
What growest thou, Nin-ki-gal?
Have pity, O Queen of Queen..!

NlI'-KI-GAL.

Life-seeds I sow —
To reap the numbered breaths;

Fair flowers I grow —
And hers, red Ashtoreth's;

Vca, all arc Nin-ki-gal's!

The Sibyl.

Whr.t knovv-est thou, Nin-ki-gal?
What shovvcst thou, Nin-ki-gal?
Have pity, O Queen of Queens!

NiN-KI-GAL.

Nor king nor slave I know,
Nor tribes, nor shibboleths;

But IJfe-in-Death I know —
Yea. Nin-ki-gal I know —

Life's Queen and Dfith's."

*IIathor.

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal

icn she
or not,
-ki-gal,
I's face

And what was the effect upon me of these communings
with the ancestors whose superstitions I have, perhaps, been
throughout this narrative treating in a spirit that hardly be-
comes their descendant?

The best and briefest way of answering this question is to
confess not what 1 thought, as I went on studying my
father's book, its strange theories and revelations, but what
I did. I read the book all day long: I read it all the next
day. I cannot say what days passed. One night I resumed
my wanderings in the streets for an hour or two, and then
returned home and went to bed, — but not to sleep. For me
there was no more sleep until those ancestral voices could
be quelled — till that sound of Winnie's song in the street
could be stopped in my ears. For very relief from them I
again leapt out of bed, lit a candle, unlocked the cabinet,
and taking out the amulet, proceeded to examine the facets
as I did once before when I heard in the Swiss cottage these
words of my stricken father : —

"Should you ever come to love as I have loved, you will find that
materialism is intolerable — is hell itself — to the heart that has
known a passion like mine. You will find that it is madness, Hal,
madness, to believe in the word 'never!' You will find that you
dare not leave untried any creed, howsoever wild, that offers the
heart a ray of hope."

And then while the candle burnt out dead in the socket I
sat in a waking dream.

III.

The bright light of morning was pouring through the win-
dow. I gave a start of horror, and cried, "Whose face?"
Opposite to me there seemed to be sitting on a bed the
figure of a man with a fiery cross upon his breast. That
strange wild light upon the face, as if the pains at the heart
were flickering up through the flesh — where had I seen it?
For a moment when, in Switzerland, my father bared his
bosom to me, that ancestral flame had flashed up into his
dull Hneaments. But upon the picture of 'The Sibyl" in
the portrait-gallery that illumination was perpetual !

"It is merely my own reflex in a looking-glass," I ex-
claimed.

Without knowing it I had slung the cross round my neck.

I
. lit

26o

Aylwin

And then Sinfi Lovell's voice seemed murmuring in my
ears, "Fenella Stanley's dead and dust, and that's why she
can make you put that cross in your feyther's tomb, and she
will, she will."

I turn'^d the cross round : the front of it was now next to
my skin. Sharp as needles were those diamond and ruby
poiius as I sat and gazed in the glass. Slowly a sensation
arose on my breast, of pain that was a pleasure wild and
new. / z:'as feeling the facets. But the tears trickling down,
salt, through my moustache were tears of laughter; for
Sinfi Lovell seemed again murmuring, "For good or for ill,
you must dig deep to bury your daddy."

What thoughts and what sensations were mine as I sat
there, pressing the sharp stones into my breast, thinking of
her to whom the sacred symbol had come, not as a blessing,
but as a curse — what agonies were mine as I sat there sob-
bing the one word "Winnie," — could be understood by
myself alone, the latest blossom of the passionate blood that
for generations had brought bliss and bale to the Aylwins.

I cannot tell what I felt and thought, but only what I did.
And while I did it my reason was all the time scoffing at my
heart (for whose imperious behoof the wild, mad things I
am about to record were done) — scoffing, as an Asiatic
malefactor will sometimes scofif at the executioner whose
pitiless and conquering saw is severing his bleeding body in
twain. I arose and murmured ironically to Fenella Stanley
as I wrapped the cross in a handkerchief and placed it in a
hand-valise : "Secrecy is the first thing for us sacrilegists to
consider, dear Sibyl, in placing a valuable jewel in a tomb
in a deserted church. To tak<i any one into our confidence
would be impossible ; we must go alone. But to open the
tomb and close it again, and leave no trace of what has been
done, will require all our skill. And as burglars' jemmies
are not on open sale we must buy, on our way to the rail-
way-station, screwdrivers, chisels, a hammer, and a lantern;
for who should know better than you, dear Sibyl, that the
palace of Nin-ki-gal is dark?"

")'■ t:

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal 261

IV.

As I hurried towards the Great Eastern Railway station, I
felt like a horse drawn by a Gypsy whisperer to do some-
thing against his own will, and yet in the street I stopped to
buy the tools. Reaching Dullingham in the afternoon, I
lunched there; and as I walked thence along the cliff,
towards Raxton, I became more calm and collected. I de-
termined not to go near the Hall, lest my movements should
be watched by the servants. The old churchyard was full
of workmen of the navvy kind, and I learned that for the
safety of the public it had now become necessary to hurl
down upon the sands some enormous masses of the cliff
newly disintegrated by the land-springs. I descended the
gangway at Flinty Point, and concealing my implements
behind a boulder in the cliff, ascended Needle Poir.t, and
went into the town.

I had previously become aware, from conversations with
my mother, that Wynne had been succeeded as custodian
of the old church by Shales, the hump-backed tailor, and I
apprehended no difficulty in getting the keys of the church
and crypt from my simple-minded acquaintance, without
arousing his suspicions as to my mission.

Therefore I went at once to the tailor's shop, but found
that Shales was out, attending an annual Odd-Fehows'
carousal at Graylinghani. Consequently I was obliged to
open my business to his mother, a far shrewder person, and
one who might be much more difficult to deal with. Flow-
ever, the fact of the navvies being at work so close to a
church whose chancel belonged to my family afforded an
excellent motive for my visit. But before I could introduce
the subject to Mrs. Shales, I had to listen to an exhaustive
chronicle of Raxton and Graylinghani doings since I had
left. Hence by the time I quitted her (with a promise to
return the keys in the m.orning) the sun was setting.

But, as I walked along Wilderness Road towards the
church, a new and unexpected difficulty presented itself to
my mind. I could not, without running the risk of an in-
terruption, enter the church till after the Odd-Fellows had
all returned from Graylingham, as Shales and his com-

., /

262

Aylwin

1 1

f'l

it \ i

panions would have to pass along Wilderness Road, which
skirts the churchyard. vShales himself was as short-sighted
as a bat; but his companions had the usual long-sight of
agriculturists, and would descry the slightest movement in
the churchyard, or any glimmer of light at the church
windows.

I would have postponed my enterprise till the morrow;
but another important appointment at the office of our
solicitor with my mother precluded the possibility of this.
So my visit to the catacomb must perforce be late at night.

Accordingly, I descended the cliff and waited to hear the
return of the carousers. There I sat down upon the well-
remembered boulder, lost in recollections of all that had
passed on those sands, while over the sea the night spread
like tnc widening, darkening wings of an enormous spectral
bird, whose brooding voice was the drone of the waves as
they came nearer and nearer. Then I began to think of what
lay before me, of the strangeness and wildness of my life.

Then I recalled, with a shudder I could not repress, those
sepulchral chambers beneath the church, which, owing. I
believe, to thv'^, directions of an ancestor's will, had been the
means of saving it frori demolition after a large portion of
the church had been condemned as dangerous. Raxton
church is the only one along the coast that can boast a
crypt; all the churches are Perpendicular in style, too late
for crypts ; a fa^t Vvhich is supposed to indicate that Raxton
was, in very early times, a sea-side town of great impor-
tance ; for the crypt is much older than the church, and of
an entirely different kind of architecture. It was once a
depository for the bones of Danish warriors killed before
the Norman Conquest; it extends, not only beneath the
chancel, as in most cases, but beneath both the transepts.
The vaulting (supported partly on low columns of remark-
able beauty and partly on the basement wall of the church)
is therefore of unusual extent. The external door in the
churchyard is now hidden by drifted sand and mould. Many
years ago,, to give place to the tombs and coffins of my
family, the bones of the old Danes were piled together in
various corners ; and the thought of these bones called up
the picture of the abode of "Nin-ki-gal," the Queen of
Death :

"Ghost.s. like birds, ilutlfr tlitir wings there;
On the gate and the gate-posts the dust Hes undisturbed."

iii ' ■^■^'

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal

263

i-.

Then my mind began to make pictures for itself of my
father lying in his coffin. I have, I think, already said that
his body had been embalmed, in order to allow of its being
conveyed from Switzerland to England. Therefore I had
no dread of being confronted by that attribute of Death,
alluded to by D'Arcy, which is the most cruel and terrible
of all — corruption. But then what change should I find in
the expression of those features which on the day of the in-
terment had looked so calm? A thrill ran through my
frame as I pictured myself raising the coffin-lid, and finding
expressed upon the face, in language more appalling than
any malediction in articulate speech — the curse !

At about ten o'clock I mounted the gangway and waited
behind a deserted bungalow built for Fenella Stanley till I
should hear the Odd-Fellows returning. In a few n^inutes
I heard them approaching. They were singing snatcnes of
songs they had been entertained with at Graylingham, and
chatting and laughing as they went down Wilderness Road
towards Raxton. As they passed the bungalow and ad-
joining mill there was a silence.

I heard one man say : '* 'Ez Tom Wynne's ghooast bin
seen here o' late ?"

"Noon, but the Squoire's 'ez," said another.

*7 say they've both on 'em bin seed," exclaimed a third
voice, which I recognized to be that of old Lantoff of the
"Fishing Smack" — "leastways, if they ain't bin seed they've
bin 'eeared. One Saturday arternoon old Sal Gunn wur in
the church a-cleanin' the Hall brasses, an' jist afore sun-
down, as she wur a-'^omin' away, she 'eeared a awful scrim-
mage an' squealin' -n the crypt, and she 'eeared the v'ice
o' the Squoire a-callin' out, and she 'eeared Tom Wynne's
v'ice a-cussin' and a-swearin' at 'im. And more nor that,
Sal told me that on the night when the Squoire wur buried,
she seed Tom a-draggin' the Squoire's body along the
churchyard to the clifif; only she never spoke on it at the
time. And Sal says she larnt in a dream that the moment
as Tom went and laid 'is 'and on that 'ere dimind cross in
the coffin, up springs the Squoire and claps 'old o' Tom's
throat, and Tom takes 'old or. him, and drags him out o'
the church, meanin' to chuck him over the cliffs, when God
o' mighty, as wur a-keepin' 'is eye on Tom all the time,
he jist lets go o' the cliffs and down they falls, and kills
Tom, and buries him an' Squoire tew."

264

Aylwin

"Did you say Sal seed all that in a dream? or did she see
it in old ale, Muster Lantoff?" said Shales.

"Well," replied Lantoff, as the party turned past the
bungalow, "p'raps it wur ole ale as made me see in this very
bungaler when I wur a bor the ghooast o' the great Gypsy
lady Whose pictur hangs up at the Hall, her as they used to
call the old Squoire's Witch-wife."

Soon the singing and laughing were renewed; and I stood
and listened to the sounds till they died away in the distance.
Then I unlocked the church-door and entered.

; -

! >

^ u

i "•

As I walked down nn aisle, the echoes of my footsteps
seemed almost loud enough to be heard on the Wilderness
Road. No one could have a more contemptuous disbelief
in ghosts than I, and yet the man's words about the ghost
of Fenella Stanley haunted me. When I reached the heavy
nailed door leading dow»" the crypt, I lit the lantern. The
rusty key turned so stiL'_. m the lock, that, to relieve my
hands (which were burdened with the implements I had
brought), I slung the hair-chain of the cross around my
neck, intending merely to raise the coffin-lid sufficiently
high to admit of my slipping the amulet in.

Having, with much difficulty, opened the door, I entered
the crypt. The atmosphere, though not noisome, was
heav)% and charged with an influence that worked an ex-
traordinary effect upon my brain and nerves. It was as
though my personality were becoming dissipated, until at
last it was partly the reflex of ancestral experiences.
Scarcely had this mood passed before a sensation came
upon me of being fanned as if by clammy bat-like wings ;
and then the idea seized me that the crypt scintillate.', with
\'he eyes of a malignant foe. It was as if the curse which,
until I heard Winnie a beggar singing in the street, had
been to me but a collocation of maledictory words, harm-
less save in their effect upon her superstitious mind, had
here assumed nn actual corporeal shape. In the uncertain
light shed by the lantern, I seem'^'i to see the face of this
em])odicd curse with an ever-c'-.Tn^^mg i.iioo.iery of expres-

)

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal

265

sion; at one moment wearing the features of my father;
at another those of Tom Wynne; at another the leer of
the old woman I had seen in Cyril's studio.

"It is an illusion," I said, as I closed my eyes to shut it
out; "it is an illusion, born of opiate fumes or else of an
overtaxed brain and an exhausted stomach." Yet it dis-
turbed me as much as if my reason had accepted it as real.
Against this foe I seemed to be fighting towards my father's
cofifin as a dreamer fights against a nightmare, and at last I
fell over one of the heaps of old Danish bones in a corner of
the crypt. The candle fell from my lantern, and I was in
darkness. As I sat there I passed into a semi-conscious
state. I saw sitting at the apex of a towering pyramid, built
of phosphorescent human bones that reached far, far above
the stars, the "Queen of Death, Nin-ki-gal," scattering
seeds over the earth below. A\ the pryramid's base knelt
the suppliant figure of a Sibyl pleading with the Queen of
Death :

"What answer, O Nin-ki-gal?
Have pity, O Queen of Queens!"

And the Sibyl's face was that of Fenella Stanley — her voice
was that of Sinfi Lovell.

And then from that dizzy height seemed to come a cack-
ling laugh: —

"You makes me blush, an' blow me if blushin' ain't bin
an' made f other eye dry. I lives in Primrose Court, Great
Queen Street, an' my reg'lar perfession is a-sellin' coffee *so
airly in the morning',' and I've got a darter as ain't quite
so 'ansom as me, bein' the moral of her fatlier."

And now in my vision I perceived that Nin-ki-gal's face
was that of the old woman I had seen in Cyril's studio, and
that she was dressed in the same fantastic costume in which
Cyril had bedizened her.

i J:

VI.

I SPRANG up, struck a light and relit the candle, and soon
reached the coffin resting on a stone table. I found, on
examining it, that although it had been screwed down
after the discovery of the violation, the work had been so

ji' 1

266

Aylwin

loosely done that a few turns of the screwdriver were suffi-
cient to set the lid free. T n I paused ; for to raise the
loosened lid (knowing as I d i that it was only the blood's
inherited follies tliat had coiujuered my rationalism and
induced me to disturb the tomb) seemed to require the
strength of a giant. Moreover, the fantastic terror of old
Lantofif's story, which at another time would have made me
smile, also took bodily shape, and the picture of a dreadful
struggle at the edge of the cliff between Winnie's father
and mine seemed to hang in the air — a fascinating mirage
of ghastly horror.

At last, by an immense effort of will, I closed my eyes
and pushed the lid violently on one side.

The "sweet odours and divers kinds of spices" of the Jew-
ish embalmer rose like a gust of incense — rose and spread
through the crypt like the sweet breath of a new-born bless-
ing, till ^he air ■ I the charnel-house seemed laden with a
mingle 1 c lour of indescribable sweetness. Never had any
odour so delighted my senses ; never had any sensuous in-
fluence so soothed rny soul.

While I stood inhaling the scents of opobalsam, and
cinnamon and myrrh, and wine of palm and oil of cedar,
and all the other spices of the Pharaohs, mingled in one
strange aromatic cloud, my personality seemed again to
become, in part, the reflex of ancestral experiences.

I opened my eyes. I looked into the coffin. The face
(which had been left by the embalmer exposed) confronted
mine. "Fenella Stanley !" I cried, for the great transfigurer
Death had written upon my father's brow that self-same
message which the passions of a thousand Romany ances-
tors had set upon the face of her whose portrait hung in
the picture-gallery. And the rubies and diamonds and
beryls of the cross as it now hung upon my breast, catch-
ing the light of the opened lantern in my left hand, shed
over the features an indescribable reflex hue of quivering
rose.

Beneath his head I placed the silver casket ; I hung the
hair-chain round his neck ; I laid upon his breast the long-
loved memento of his love and the parchment scroll.

Then I sank down by the coffin, and prayed. I knew not

The Palace of Nin-ki-gal

267

face

onted

gurer

same

tnces-

ig in

and

atch-

shed

Ting

the
long-

what or why. But never since the first human prayer was
breathed did there rise to heaven a supphcation so in-
coherent and so wild as mine. Then 1 rose, and laying my
hand upon my father's cold brow, I said : "You have for-
given me for all the wild words that I uttered in my long
agony. They were but the voice of intolerable misery re-
belling against itself. You, who suffered so much — who
knew so well those Hames burning at the heart's core —
those flames before which all the forces of the man go down
like prairie-grass before the fire and wind — you have for-
given me. You who knew the meaning of the wild word
Love — you have forgiven your suffering son, stricken like
yourself. You have forgiven me, father, and forgiven him,
the despoiler of your tomb : you have removed the curse,
and his child — his innocent child — is free."

^ 3K :): ^ )|l >|(

I replaced the coffin-lid, and screwing it down left the
crypt, so buoyant and exhilarated that I stopped in the
churchyard and asked myself: "Do I, then, really believe
that she was under a curse? Do I really bdiovi* that my
restoring the amulet has removed it? Have I really come
to this?"

Thro::;;ghout all these proceedings — ye§, even amidst that
prayer to Heaven, amidst that impassioned appeal to my
dead father — had my reason been keeping up that scoffing
at my heart which I have before described.

I knocked up the landlord of the "White Hart," and.
turning into bed, slept my first peaceful sleep since my
trouble.

To escape awkward questions, I did not in the morning
take back the keys to Shales's house myself, but sent them,
and walking to Dullingham took ihe train to London.

not

Behind the Veil

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■■vi

X.— BEHIND THE VEIL

When I met my mother at the solicitor's office next day,
she was astonished at my cheerfulness and at the general
change in me. As we left the office together, she said ;

"Everything is now arranged: your aunt and I have de-
cided to accept Lord Sleaford's in\ itation to go lOr a cruise
in his yacht. We leave to-morru\' evening. Lord Sleaford
has promised to take me to-morrow afternoon to Mr. Wil-
dcrspin's studio, to see the great painter's portrait of me,
which is now, I understand, quite finished."

"Why did you not ask me to accompany you, instead of
asking Sleaford?"

"I did not know that you would care to do so."

"Dear mother," I .-,aid, in a tender tone that startled her,
"you must let me go with you and Sleaford to the studio."

She consented, ana on the following afternoon I called at
my aunt's house in Belgrave Sc((iare. The hall was full of
portmanteaux, boxes, and packages. Sleaford had already
arrived, and was waiting with stolid patience for my mother,
who had gone to her room to dress. He began to talk to
me about the astonishing gifts of Cyril Aylwin.

"Have you made an appointment with Wilderspin?" I
said to my mother, when she entered the room. "The last
time I saw him he seemed to be much occupied with some
disturbing affairs of 'his own."

"Appointment? No," said she, with an air that seemed
to imply that an Aylwin, even with Gypsy blood in his
veins, in calling upon Art, was conferring upon it a favour
to be welcomed at any time.

"I have not seen this portrait yet," said Sleaford, as the
carriage moved off; "but Cyril Aylwin says it is magnificent,
and if anybody knows what's good and what's bad it's Cyril
Aylwin."

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272

Aylwin

"Do you know," said my mother to me, "I have taken
vastly to this eccentric kinsman of ours? I had really no
idea that a bohemian could be so much like a gentleman ;
but, of course, an Aylwin must always be an Aylwin."

"Haw, haw!" laughed Sleaford to himself, "that's good
about Cyril Aylwin though — that's dooced good."

"We shall see Wilderspin's great picture, 'Faith and
Love,* at the same time," I said, as we approached Chelsea;
"for Wilderspin tells me that he has borrowed it from the
owner to make a i^plica of it."

"That is very fcrtunc^te," said my mother. "I have the
greatest desire to see this picture and its wonderful predella.
Wilderspin is one of the few painters who revert to the
predella of the old masters. He is said to combine the colour
of him whom he calls 'his master' with the draughtsmanship
and intellect of Shields, whose stained-glass windows the
owner was showing me the other day at Eaton Hall ; and do
you know, Henry, that the painter of this wonderful 'Faith
and Love' is never tired of declaring that the subject was
inspired by your dear father?"

When we reached the studio the servant said that Mr.
Wilderspin was much indisposed that afternoon, and was
also just getting ready to go to Paris, where he was to
join Mr. Cyril in his studio; "but perhaps he would see us,'"
— an announcement that brought a severe look to my
mother's face, and another half-suppressed "Hav/, haw!"
from Sleaford's deep chest.

Mounting the broad old staircase, we found ourselves in
the studio of the famous spiritualist-painter — one of two
studios ; for Wilderspin had turned two rooms communicat-
ing v^ith each other by folding-doors into a sort of double
studio. One of these rooms, which was of moderate size,
fronted the north-east, the other faced the south-west. There
were (as I soon discovered) easels in both. It was the
smaller of these rooms into which we were now shown by
the servant. The walls were covered with sketches and
drawings in various stages, and photographs of sculpture.

"By Jove, that's dooced like!" said Sleaford, pointing to
my mother's portrait, which was standing on the floor, as
though just returned from the frame-maker's: "ask Cyril
Aylwin if it ain't when you see ''lim."

It was a truly magnificent painting, but n"!ore full of
imagination than of actual portraiture.

Behind the Veil

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good

size,
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the
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and
pture.
ng to
■or. as
Cyril

Liil of

One of the windows was open, and the noise of an anvil
from a blacksmith's shop in Maud Street came into the
room.

"Do you know," said my mother in an undertone, "that
this strange geniuG can only, when in London, work to the
sound of a blacksmith's anvil ? Nothing will induce him to
paint a portrait out of his own studio ; and I observed, when
I was sitting to him here, that sometimes when the noise
from the anvil ceased he laid down his brush and waited for
the hideous din to be resume d."

Wilderspin now came through the folding doors, and
greeted us in his usual simple, courteous way. But I saw
that he was in trouble. "The portrait will look better yet,"
he said. "I always leave the final glazing till the picture
is in the frame."

After we had thoroughly examined the portrait, we
turned to look at a large canvas upon an easel. Wilderspin
had evidently been working upon it very lately .

"That's 'Ruth and Boaz,' don't you know ?" said Sleaford.
"Finest crop of barley I ever saw in my life, judgin' from
the size of the sheaves. Barley paid better than wheat last
year. So the farmers all say."

"Don't look at it," said Wilderspin. "I have been taking
out part of Ruth, and was just beginning to repaint her
from the shoulders upwards. It will never be finished
now," he continued with a sigh.

We asked him to allow us to see "Faith and Love."
"It is in the next room," said he, "but the predella is here
on the next easel. I have removed it from underneath the
picture to work upon."

"The head of Ruth has been taken out," said my mother,
turning to me: "but isn't it like an old master? You ought
to see the marvellous Pre-Raphaelite pictures at Mr.
Graham's and Mr. Ley land's, Henry."

"Pre-Raphaelites!" said Wilderspin, "the Master rhymes,
madam, and Burne-Jones actually reads the rhymes! How-
ever, they are on the right track in art, though neither has
. the slightest intercourse with the spirit world, not the
slightest."

"My exploits as a painter have not been noticeable as
yet," I said; "but an amateur may know what a barley field
is. That is one before us. He may know what a man in
love is ; Boaz there is in love."

274

Aylwin

"I wish we could see the woman's face," said Sleaford.
"A woman, you know, without a face "

"Come and see the predella of 'Faith and Love,' " said
Wilderspin, and he moved towards an easel where rested
the predella, a long narrow picture without a frame. My
mother followed him, leaving me standing before the picture
of Ruth and Boaz. Although the head of Ruth had been
painted out, the picture seemed to throb with life. Boaz
had just discovered the Moabitish maiden in the gleaming
barley-field, as she had risen from stooping to glean the
corn. Two ears of barley were in one hand. In the face of
Boaz was an expression of surprise, and his eyes were alight
with admiration. The picture was finished with the excep-
tion of the face of Ruth, which was but newly sketched in.
Wilderspin had contrived to make her attitude and even the
very barley-ears in her hand (one of which was dangling
between her slender fingers in the act of falling) express
innocent perturbation and girlish modesty.

\m i

II.

At length I joined the others, who were standing before the
easel, looking at the predella which, as Wilderspin again
took care to tell us, had been removed from the famous
picture of 'Faith and Love' we were about to see in the next
room — "the culmination and final expression of the Ren-
ascence of Wonder in Art."

"Perhaps it is fortunate," said he, "that I happen to be
working at this very time upon the predella, which acts as
a key to the meaning of the design. You will now have the
advantage of seeing the predella before you see the picture
itself. And really it would be to the advantage of the picture
if every one could see it under like circumstances ; it would
add immensely to the effect of the design. Look well and
carefully at the predella first. Try to imagine the Oriental
Queen behind that veil, then observe the way in which the
features are expressed through the veil ; and then, but not
till then, come into the adjoining room and see the picture
itself, see what Isis really is (according to the sublime idea
of Philip Aylwin) when Faith and Love, the twin angels
of all true art, upraise the veil."

Behind the Veil

275

He then turned and passed thrcug-h the folding-doors
into a room of great size, crowdetl with easels, upon which
pictures were resting.

The predella before me seemed a miracle of imaginative
power. At that time I had not seen the work of the great
poet-painter of modern times whom Wilderspin called "the
Master," and by whom he had been unconsciously inspired.

"Most beautiful 1" my mother ejaculated, as we three lin-
gered before the predella. "Do look at the filmy texture of
the veil."

"Looks more like steam than a white veil, don't you
know?" said Sleaford.

"Like steam, my lord?" exclaimed Wilderspin from
the next room. "The painter of that veil had peculiar
privileges. As a child he had been in the habit of watching
a face through the curtain of steam around a blacksmith's
forge when hot iron is plunged into the water-trench, and
the face, my lord, though begrimed by earthly toil, was an
angel's. No wonder, then, that the painting in that veil is
unique in art. The flesh-tints that are pearly and yet rosy
seem, as you observe, to be breaking through it, and yet
you cannot say what is the actual expression on the face.
But now come and see the picture itself."

My mother and Sleaford lingered for a moment longer,
and then passed between the folding-doors.

But I did not follow them ; I could not. For now there
was something in the predella before me which fascinated
me, I scarcely knew why. It was the figure of the Queen —
the figure between two sleeping angels, behind the veil, and
expressed by the veil — that enthralled me.

There was a turn about the outlined neck and head that
riveted my gaze; and, as I looked from these to the veil
falling over the face, a vision seemed to be rapidly growing
before my eyes — a. vision that stopped iny breath — a, vision
of a face struggling to express itself through that snowy
film — whose face?

' • ilj

"In the crypt my senses had a kind of license to play
me tricks," I murmured ; "but now and here my reason shall
conquer."

I stood and gazed at the veil. During all the time I
could hear every word of the talk between Wilderspin and

276

Aylwin

m ,

i '

;

1 V '

lii

illl- 1

II l

Sleaford and my mother before the picture in the other
room.

"Awfully fine picture," said Sleaford, "but the Queen
there — Isis: more like a Europea^n face than an Egyptian.
I've been to Egypt a good deal, don't you know?"

"This is not an historical painting, my lord. As Philip
Aylwin says, 'the only soul-satisfying function of art is to
give what Zoroaster calls "apparent pictures of unapparent
realities." ' Perfect beauty has no nationality ; hers has
none. All the perfections of woman culminate in her. How
can she then be disfigured hy paltry characteristics of this
or that race or nation ? In looking at that group, my lord,
nationality is forgotten, and should be forgotten. She is the
type of Ideal Beauty whose veil can never be raised save by
the two angels of all true art. Faith and Love. She is the
type of Nature, too, whose secret, as Philip Aylwin says,
'no science but that of Faith and Love can read.* "

"Seems to be the type of a good deal ; but it's all right,
don't you know? Awfully fine picture! Awfully fine
woman!" said Sleaford in a conciliatory tone. "She's a
good deal fairer though, than any Eastern women I've
seen; but then I suppose she has worn a veil all her life
up to now. Most "f 'em take sly peeps, and let in the
hot Oriental sun, ? .d that tans 'em, don't you know?"

"And the original of this face?" I heard my mother say in
a voice that seemed agitated; "could you tell me some-
thing about the original of this remarkable face?"

"The model ?" said Wilderspin. "We are not often asked
about our models, but a model like that would endow
mediocrity itself with genius, for, though apparently, and
by way of beneficent illusion, the daughter of an earthly
costermonger, she was a wanderer from another and a bet-
ter world. She is not more beautiful here than when I saw
her first in the sunlight on that memorable day, at the
corner of Essex Street, Strand, bare-headed, her shoulders
shining like patches of polished ivory here and there
through the rents in her tattered dress, while she stood gaz-
ing before her, murmuring a verse of Scripture, perfectly
unconscious whether she was dressed in rags or velvet;

her eyes "

"The eyes — it is the eyes, don't you know — it is the eyes
that are not quite right," said Sleaford. "Blue eyes with
black eyelashes arc awfully fine ; you don't see 'em in Egypt.

' i:

Behind the Veil

277

But I suppose that's the type of something too. Types
ahvays flc r me, don't you know?"

"But the scene is no longer Egypt, my lord; it is Cor-
inth," replied Wilderspin.

During this dialogue I stood motionless before the pre-
della; I could not stir; my feet seemed fixed in the floor
by what can only be described as a wild passion of expecta-
tion. As I stood there a marvellous change appeared to
be coming over the veiled figure of the predella. The veil
seemed to be growing more and more filmy — more and
more like the "steam" to which Sleaford had compared it,
till at last it resolved itself into a veil of mist — into the
rainbow-tinted vapours of a gorgeous mountain sunrise,
and looking straight at me were two blue eyes sparkling
with childish happiness and childish greeting, through
flushed mists across a pool on Snowdon.

That she was found at last my heart knew, though my
brain was dazed. That in the next room, within a few
yards of me, my mother and Sleaford and Wilderspin were
looking at the picture of Winifred's face unclouded by the
veil, my heart knew as clearly as though my eyes were
gazing at it, and yet I could not stir. Yes, I knew that she
was now neither a beggar in the street, nor a prisoner
in one of the dens of London, nor starving in a squalid
garret, but was safe under the sheltering protection of a
good man. I knew that I had only to pass between those
folding-doors to see her in Wilderspin's picture — see her
dressed in the "azure-coloured tunic bordered with stars,"
and the upper garment of the "colour of the moon at
moonrise," which Wilderspin had so vividly described in
Wales, and yet, paralysed by expectation, I could not stir.

>•■■-

r 1

< 5

III.

Soon I was conscious that my mother, Sleaford, and Wil-
derspin were standing by my side, that Wilderspin's hand
was laid on my arm, and that I was pointing at the predella
— pointing and muttering:

"She lives ! She is saved."

My mother led me into the other studio, and I stood

r--;;i.

278

Aylwin

before the great picture. Wilderspin and Sleaford, feeling
that something had occurred of a private and delicate na-
ture, lingered out of hearmg in the smaller studio.

"I must be taken to her at once," I muttered to my
mother, "at once."

So living was the portrait of Winifred that I felt that she
must be close at hand. I looked round to see if she herself
were not standing by me dressed in the dazzling draperies
gleaming from Wilderspin 's superb canvas.

But in place of Winifred the profile of my mother's face,
cold, proud, and white, met my gaze. Again did the stress
of over-mastering emotion make of me a child, as it had
done on the night of the landslip. "Mother!" I said, "you
see who it is ?"

She made no answer : she stood looking steadfastly at the
picture ; but the tremor of the nostrils, the long deep breaths
she drew, told me of the fierce struggle waging within her
breast between conscience and pity, with rage and cruel
pride. My old awe of her returned. I was a little boy again,
trembling for Winnie. In some unaccountable and, 1 be-
lieve, unprecedented way I had always felt that she, my own
mother, belonged to some haughty race superior to mine
and Winnie's; and nothing but the intensity of my love
for Winnie could ever have caused me to rebel against
my mother.

"Dear mother," I murmured, "all the mischief and sor-
row and pain are ended now ; and we shall all be happy ; for
you have a kind heart, dear, and cannot help loving poor
Winnie, when you come to know her."

She made no answer save that her lips slowly reddened
again after the pallor; then came a quiver in them, as
though pity were conquering pride within her breast, and
then that contemptuous curl that had often in the past
cowed the heart of the fearless and pugnacious boy whom
no peril of sea or land could appal.

"She is found," I said. "And, mother, there is no longer
an estrangement between you and me. I forgive you every-
thing now."

I leapt from her as though I had been stung, so sudden
and unexpected was the look of scorn that came over her
face as she said, "You forgive me !" It recalled my strug-
gle with her on that dreadful night: and in a moment I
became myself again. The pleading boy became, at a

■^ *t

Behind the Veil

279

feeling
ate na-

to my

hat she

herself

■aperies

-'s face,

e stress

it had

d, "you

y at the
breaths
hin her
d cruel
y again,
1, 1 be-
Tiy own
;o mine
ly love
against

nd sor-
py ; for
I poor

ddened
em, as
st, and
le past
whom

longer
every-

sudden
ver her
strug-
ment I
;, at a

flash, the stern and angry man that misery had made him.
With my heart hedged once more with points of steel to all
the world but Winnie, I turned away. 1 did not know then
that lier attitude towards me at this moment came from the
fmal struggle in her breast between her pride and that re-
morse which afterwards took possession of her and seemed
as though it would make the remainder of her life a tragedy
without a smile in it. At that moment Wilderspin and
Sleaford came in from the smaller studio. "Where is she?"
I said to Wilderspin. 'Take me to her at once — take me to
her who sat for this picture. It is she whom I and Sinfi
Lovell were seeking in Wales."

A look of utter astonishment, then one of painful per-
plexity came over his face — a look which I attributed to his
having heard part of the conversation between my mother
and myself.

"You mean the — the — model? She is not here, Mr.
Aylwin," said he. "The same young lady you were seeking
in Wales! Mysterious indeed are the ways of the spirit
world!" and then his lips moved silently as though in
prayer.

"Where is she?" I asked again.

"I will tell you all about her soon — when we are alone,"
he said in an undertone. "Does the picture satisfy you?"

The picture ! He was thinking of his art. Amid all that
gorgeous pageant in which mediaeval angels were mixed
with classic youths and flower-crowned maidens, in such a
medley of fantastic beauty as could never have been imag-
ined save by a painter who was one-third artist, one-third
madman, and one-third seer — amid all the marvels of that
strange, uncanny culmination of the neo-Romantic move-
ment in Art which had excited the admiration of one set
of the London critics and the scorn of others, I had really
and fully seen but one face — the face of Isis, or Pelagia,
or Eve, or Natura Benigna, or whosoever she was looking
at me with those dear eyes of Winnie's which were my very
life — looking at me with the same bewitching, indescrib-
able expression that they wore when she sat with her
"Prince of the Mist" on Snowdon. I tried to take in the
ensemble. In vain ! Nothing but the face and figure of
Winifred — crowned with seaweed as in the Raxton photo-
graph — could stay for the thousandth part of a second upon
my eyes.

280

Aylwin

"Wildcrspin," I said, "I cannot do the picture justice at
this moment, i must see it again — after 1 have seen her.
Where is she? Can 1 not see her now?"

"You cannot."

"Can I not see her to-day?"

"You cannot. I will tell you soon, and I have much to
tell you," said Wilderspin, looking uneasily round at my
mother, who did not seem inclined to leave us. "I will tell
you all about her when — when you are sufficiently calm."

"Tell me now," I said.

"Gad ! this is a strange affair, don't you know. It would
puzzle Cyril Aylwin himself," said Sleaford. "What the
dooce does it all mean?"

"Is she safe ?" I cried to Wilderspin.

There was a pause.
Is she safe?" I cried again.

"Quite safe," said Wilderspin, in a tone whose solemnity
would have scared me had the speaker been any other per-
son that this eccentric creature. "When you are less agi-
tated, I will tell you all about her."

"No! now, now!"

i I

IV.

"Well, Mr. Aylwin," said Wilderspin, "when I first saw
your father's book, The Veiled Queen, it was the vignette on
the title-page that attracted me. In the eyes of that beauti-
ful child-face, even as rendered by a small reproduction,
there was the very expression that my soul had been yearn-
ing after — the expression which no painter of woman's
beauty had ever yet caught and rendered. I felt that he
who could design or suggest to a designer such a vignette
must be inspired, and I bought the book: it was as an
artist, not as a thinker, that I bought the book for the
vignette. When, on reading it, I came to understand the
full meaning of the design, such sweet comfort and hope
did the writer's words give me, that I knew at once who
had impressed me to read it — I knew that my mission in
life was to give artistic development to the sublime ideas
of Philip Aylwin. I began the subject of 'Faith and Love.'
But the more I tried to render the expression that had

i'l m

Behind the Veil

281

fascinated mc the more imp >ssible did the task seem to me.
Howsoever imaginative may be any desiq^n, the painter who
would produce a Hving picture must paint from hfe, and
then he has to fight against his model's expression. Do
you remember my telling you the other day how the spirit
of Mary Wilderspin in heaven came upon me in my sore
perplexity and blessed me — sent me a spiritual body — led
me out into the street, and "

"Yes, yes, I remember ; but what happened ?"

"We will sit," said Wilderspin.

He placed chairs for us, and I perceived that my mother
did not intend to go.

"Well," he continued, "on that sunny morning I was
impressed to leave my studio and go out into the streets.
It was then that I found what I had been seeking, — the
expression in the beautiful child-face of the vignette."

"In the street !" I heard my mother say to herself.

"How did it come about?" she asked aloud.

"It had long been my habit to roam about the streets of
London whenever I could afford the time to do so, in the
hope of finding what I sought, the fascinating and inde-
scribable expression of that one, lovely child-face. Some-
times I believed that I had found this expression. I have
followed women for miles, traced them home, introduced
myself to them, told them of my longings ; and have then,
after all, come away in bitter disappointment. The insults
and revilings I have, on these occasions, sometimes sub-
mitted to I will narrate to no man, for they would bring
me no respect in a cynical age like this — an age which
Carlyle spits at and the great and good John Ruskin chides.
Sometimes my dear friend Mr. Cyril has accompanied me
on these occasions, and he has seen how I have been
humiliated."

An involunta**y "haw, haw!" came from Sleaford, but
looking towards my mother and perceiving that she w^as
listening with intense eagerness, he said : "Ten thousand
pardons, but Cyril Aylwin's droll stories, — don't you know?
they will — hang it all — keep comin' up and makin' a fellow
laugh."

"Well," continued Wilderspin, "on that memorable
morning I was impressed to walk down the street towards
Temple Bar. I was passing close to the wall to escape the
glare of the sun, when I was stopped suddenly by a sight

[ii

I :-

i'. i

282

Aylwin

s*i

which I knew could only have been sent to mc in that hour
of perplexity by her who had said that Jesus would let her
look down and watch her boy. Moreover, at that moment
the noise of the Strand seemed to cease in my ears, which
were filled with the music I love best — the only music that
1 have patience to listen to — the tinkle oi a blacksmith's
anvil."

"Blacksmith's anvil in the Strand?" said Sleaford.

"It was from heaven, my lord, that the music fell like
rain ; it was a sij^n from Mary Wilderspin who lives there."

"For God's sake be quick !" I exclaimed. "Where was it?"

"At the corner of Essex Street. A bright-eyed, bright-
haired girl in rags was standing bareheaded, holding out
boxes of matches for sale, and murmuring words of Script-
ure. This she was doing quite mechanically, as it seemed,
and unobservant of the crowd passing by, — individuals of
whom would stop for a moment to look at her ; some with
eyes of pure admiration and some with other eyes. The
squalid attire in which she was clothed seemed to add to
her beauty."

"My poor Winnie !" I murmured, entirely overcome.

"She seemed to take as little heed of the heat and glare as
of the people, but stood there looking before her, murmur-
ing texts from Scripture as though she were communing
with the spiritual world. Her eyes shook and glittered
in the sunshine ; they seemed to emit lights from behind the
black lashes surrounding them ; the ruddy lips were quiver-
ing. There was an innocence about her brow, and yet a
mystic wonder in her eyes which formed a mingling of the
childlike with the maidenly such as "

"Man ! man ! would you kill me with your description ?"
I cried. Then grasping Wilderspin's hand, I said. "But, —
but was she begging, Wilderspin ? Not literally begging !
My Winnie ! my poor Winnie !"

My mother looked at me. The gaze was full of a painful
interest; but she recognized that between me and her there
now was rolling an infinite sea of emotion, and her eyes
drooped before mine as though she had suddenly invaded
the privacy of a stranger.

"She was offering matches for sale," said Wilderspin.

"Winnie! Winnie! Winnie!"! murmured. "Did she
seem emaciated, Wilderspin? Did she seem as though she
wanted food ?"

^"■* i :

Behind the Veil

283

lat hour
. let her
nonicnt
i, which
isic that
c smith '3

fell like
. there."
was it?"

bright-
ing out
: Script-
seemed,
iuals of
me with
5. The

add to

me.

glare as
[lurmur-
muning
flittered
lind the

quiver-
yet a
^ of the

ption ?"
'But,—
egging!

painful
IT there
er eyes
invaded

:)in.

)id she
igh she

"Heaven, no!" exclaimed my mother.

"No," replied Wildcrspin, firmly. "On tliat point who is
a better judge than the painter of 'Faith and Love'? She
did not want food. The colour of the skin was not — was
not — such as I have seen — when a woman is dying for want
of food."

"God bless you, Wilderspin, God bless you! But what
then ? — what followed ?"

"Well, Mr. Aylwin, I stood for some time gazing at her.
muttering thanks to my mother for what I had found. I
then went up to her, and asked her for a box of matches.
She held me out a box, mechanically, as it seemed, and,
when I had taken it of her, she held out her hand just as
though she had been a real earthly beggar-girl ; but that
was part of the beneficent illusion of Heaven."

"That was for the price, don't you know?" said Sleaford.
"What did you give her?"

"I gave her a shilling, my lord, which she looked at for
some time in a state of bewilderment. She then began to
feel about her as if for something."

"She was feclin' for the change, don't you know?" said
Sleaford, not in the least degree perceiving how these inter-
ruptions of a prosaic mind were maddening me.

"I told her tha^ I wanted to speak to her." continued
Wilderspin, "and asked her vhere she lis'ed. She gave ir.e
the same bewildered, other-world look v/ith which she had
regarded the shilling, a look which seemed to say, 'Go
away now : leave me alone !' As I did not go, she began to
appear afraid of me, and moved away towards Temple
Bar, and then crossed the street. I followed, as far behind
as I could without running the danger of losing sight of
her, to a wretched place running out of Great Queen Street,
Holborn, which I afterwards found was called Primrose
Court, and when I got there she had disappeared in one
of the squalid houses opening into the Court. I knocked
at the first door once or twice before an answer came, and
then a tiny girl with the *ace of a woman opened it. 'Is
there a beggar-girl living here?' I asked. 'No,' answered
the child in a sharp, querulous voice. 'You mean Meg
Gudgeon's gal wot sings and does the rainy-night dodge.
She lives next house.' And the child slammed the door in
my face. I knocked at the next door, and after waiting for
a minute it was opened by a sliort, middle-aged woman.

\x I'l-

IIIH

|i:

,,. t'

I ,

\ i

^,'i )■

Miri^!

28a.

Aylwin

with black eyes and a flattened nose, who stared at me,
and then said, 'A Quaker, by the looks o' ye.' She had the
strident voice of a raven, and she smdt, I thought, of gin."

"But, Mr. Wilderspin, iVlr. Wilderspin, you said the girl
was safe \ '

It was my mother's voice, but so loud, sharp, and ago-
nised was it that it did not seem to be her voice at all. In
that dreadful momv^nt, however, I had no time to heed it.
At the description of" the hideous den and the odious Mrs.
Gudgeon, whose face as I had seen it in Cyril's studio had
haunted me in the crypt, a dreadful shudder passed through
my frame; an indescribable sense of nausea stirred within
me; and for a moment I felt as though the pains of dis-
solution were on me. And there was something in Wilder-
spin's face — what was it? — that added to my alarm. "Stay
for a moment," I said to him ; "I cannot yet bear to hear
any more."

"I know the dread that has come upon you, and upon
your kind, s>mpathetic mother," said he; "but she you are
disturbed about was not a prisoner in the kind of place my
words ccem to describe."

"But the woman?" said my mother. "How could she
be safe in such hands ?"

"Has he not said she is safe?" I cried, in a voice that
startled even my own ears, so loud and angry it was, and yet
I hardly knew v/hy.

"You forget," said Wilderspin, turninr, to my mother,
that the whole spiritual world was watching over her."

"But was the place very — v/as it so very squalid?" said
my mother. "Pray describe it to us, Mr. Wilderspin ; I am
really very anxious."

'No !" I said ; "I want no description : I shall go and see
for myself."

"But, Henry, I am most anxious to know about this poor
girl, and I want Mr. Wilderspin to tell us how and where
he found her."

"""The 'poor girl' concerns me alone, mother. Our calami-
ties — Winnie's and mine — are between us two and God. . . .
You engaged her, Wilderspin, of the woman whom I saw
at Cyril's studio, to sit as a model ? What passed when she

«,

came

?'»

The woman brought her next day," said Wilderspin,
"and I sketched in the face of Pelagia as Isis at once. I had

Behind the Veil

285

I at me,
had the
of gin."
the girl

ind ago-
:all. In
heed it.
)us Mrs.
idio had
through
1 within
> of dis-
Wilder-
. "Stay
to hear

id upon

you are

>lace my

)uld she

ice that
and yet

mother,
her."
1?" said
n ; I am

and see

lis poor
1 where

calami-
jod. . . .
n I saw
hen she

lerspin,
I had

already taken out the face of the previous model that had
dissatisfied me. I now took out the figure too, for the
figure of this new model was as perfect as her face."

"Go on, go on. What occurred?"

"Nothing, save that she stood dumb, like one who had no
language save that of another world. But at the second
sitting she had a fit of a most dreadful kind."

"Ah! Tell me quickly." I said.

"Her face became suddenly distorted by an expression of
terror such as I had never seen and never imagined possi-
ble. I have caught it exactly in my picture 'Christabel.'
She revived ..nd tried to run out of the studio. Her mother
and I seized her, and she then fell down insensible."

"What occasioned the fit? What had frightened her?"

"That is what I am not quite certain about. When she
entered the studio she fixed her eyes upon a portrait which
I had been working upon ; but that must have been merely
a co'nciderce."

"A portrait I" I cried. And Winifred's scared expression
when she encountered my mother's look of hate in the
churchyard came back to me like a sc ne witnessed in a
flash of lightning. "The portrait was my mother's ?"

"It was the face of the kind, tender, and noble lady, your
mother," saiu \Vilderspin, gently.

I gave a hurried glance at my mother, and saw the pallor
of her face, — but to me the world held now only two
realities, Winifred and Wilderspin; all other people were
dreams, obtrusive and irritating dreams.

'Go on, go on," I said.

'She recovered," continued Wilderspin, "and seemed to
have forgotten all about the portrait, which I had put
away."

"Did she talk?"

"Never, Mr. Aylwm," said Wilderspin, solemnly. "Nor
dia I in^nte her to talk, knowing whence she came — from
the spirit-world. Ac the first few sittings Mrs. Gudgeon
came v, ith her, and would sit looking on with the intention
of seeing that she came to no harm. She said her daughter
was very beautiful, and she, her mother, never trusted her
with men."

"God bless the hag, God bless her ; but go on !"

"Gradually Mrs, Gudgeon seemed to acquire more con-
fidence in me; and one day, on leaving, she lingered behind

(((

') I

'HA

286

Aylwin

^? f i

< m

the girl, and told me that her daughter, though uncom-
monly stupid and a little touched in the head, had now
learnt her way to my studio, and that in future she should
let her come alone, as she believed that she could trust her
with me. She warned me earnestly, however, not to *worrit'
the girl by asking her all sorts of questions."

"And there she was right," I cried. "But you did ask
her questions, — I see you did, you asked her about her
father, and brought on another catastrophe."

"No," said Wilderspin with gentle dignity ; "I was careful
not to ask her questions, for her mother told me that she
was liable to fits."

"Mr. Wilderspin, I beg your pardon," I said.

"I see you -'re deeply troubled," said he; "but, Mr. Ayl-
win, you need not beg my pardon. Since I saw Mary
Wildersp'n, my mother, die for her children, no words of
mere Man h ive been able to give me pain."

"Go on, go on. What did the woman say to you ?"

"She said, 'The fewer questions you ask her the better,
and don't pay her any money. She'd only lose it ; I'll come
for it at the proper times.' From that day the model came
to the sittings alone, and Mrs. Gudgeon came at the end
of every week for the money."

"And did the model maintain her silence all this time?"

"She did. She would, every few minutes, sink into a
reverie, and appear to be stone-deaf. But sometimes her
face would become suddenly alive with all sorts of shift-
ing expressions. A few days ago she had another fit,
exactly like the former one. That was on the day preceding
my call at your hotel with your father's books. This time
we had much more difficulty in bringing her round. We
did so at last ; and when she had go le I gave the final touch
to my picture of the Lady Geraldine and Christabel. I
was at the moment, however, at work upon 'Ruth and
Boaz*, which I had painted years before — removing the
face of Ruth originally there. I worked long at it ; and as
she was not coming for two days I kept steadily at the
picture. This was on the day on which I called upon you,
wishing you to postpone your visit, lest you should inter-
rupt me while at work upon the head of Ruth, which I was
hoping to pain On Thursday I waited for her at the
appointed houi, but she did not come, and I saw her no
more."

[incom-
id now
should
ust her
'worrit'

did ask
DUt her

careful
;hat she

Ir. Ayl-
V Mary
^ords of

; better,
'11 come
lei came
the end

5 time?"
c into a
mes her
of shift-
ther fit,
receding
his time
id. We
lal touch
abel. I
uth and
zing the
and as
at the
3on you,
Id inter-
:h I was
at the
1 her no

Behind the Veil

287

"Mr. Wilderspin," I said, as I rose hurriedly, with the in-
tention of going at once in search of Winifred, "let me see
the picture you allude to — 'Christabel,' and then tell me
where to find her."

"Better not see it!" said Wilderspin, solemnly; "there's
something to tell you yet, Mr. Aylwin."

"Yes, yes; but let me see the picture first. I can bear
anything now. Howsoever terrible it may be, I can bear
it now; for she's found — she's safe." And I rushed into
the next room, and began turning round in a wild manner
one after another some dozens of canvases that were stand-
ing on the floor and leaning against the wall.

Half the canvases had been turned, and then I came upon
what I sought.

I stood petrified. But I heard Wilderspin's voice at my
side say, "Do not let an ima^^inary scene distress you, Mr.
Aylwin. The picture merely represents the scene in Cole-
ridge's poem where the Lady Christabel, havmg secretly
and in pity brought to her room to share her bed the
mysterious lady she had met in the forest at midnight,
watches the beautiful witch undress, and is spell-bound and
struck dumb by some 'sight to dream of, not to tell,' which
she sees at the lady's bosom."

3^ ^F 'I* *!* ^p ^F

Christabel ! It was Winifred sitting there upright in bed,
confronted by a female figure — a tall lady, who with bowed
head was undressing herself beneath a lamp suspended
from the ceiling. Christabel! It was Winifred gazing at
this figure — gazing as though fascinated; her dark hair
falling and tumbling down her neck, till it was at last partly
lost between her shining bosom and her nightdress. Yes,
and in her blue eyes there was the same concentration of
light, there was the same uprolling of the lips, there \/as the
same dreadful gleaming of the teeth, the same swollen veins
about the throat I had seen in Wales. No wonder that
at first I could see only the face and figure of Winifred.
My consciousness had again dwindled to a single point.
In a few seconds, however, I perceived that the scene was

'•■*

i ^>

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;fi

288

Aylwin

; I

: :

'■^U-

an antique oak-panelled chamber, corniced with large and
curiously-car ved figures, upon which played the warm light
from a silver lamp suspended from the middle of the ceiling
by a twofold silver chain fastened to the feet of an angel,
quaintly carved in the dark wood of the ceiling. It was
beneath this lamp that stood the majestic figure of the
beautiful stranger, the Lady Geraldine. As she bent her
head to look at her bosom, which she was about fully to
uncover, the lamp-light gleaming among the gems and
flashing in her hair and down her loosened white silken
robe to her naked feet, shining, blue-veined and half-hidden
in the green rushes that covered the floor, she seemed to
be herself the source from which the lurid light was shed
about the room. But her eyes were brighter than all.
They were more dreadful by far to look at than Winifred's
own — they were rolling wildly as if in an agony of hate,
while she was drawing in her breath till that marble throat
of hers seemed choking. It was not upon her eyes, how-
ever, that Winifred's were fixed : it was upon the lady's
bosom, — for out from beneath the partially-loosened robes
that covered that bosom a tiny fork of flame was flickering
like a serpent's tongue ruddy from the fires of a cruel and
monstrous hate within.

This sight was dreadful enough ; but it was not the terror
on Winifred's face that now sent me reeling against Slea-
ford, who with my mother had followed me into the smaller
room. Whose figure was that, and whose was the face
which at first I had half-recognised in the Lady Geraldine ?
My mother's !

In painting this subject Wilderspin had, without knowing
it, worked with too strong a reminiscence of my mother's
portrait, unconscious that he was but giving expression
to the awful irony of Heaven.

I turned round. Wilderspin was supporting with diffi-
culty my mother's dead weight. For the first time (as I
think) in her life, she whom, until I came to know Sinfi
Lovell, I had believed to be the strongest, proudest, bravest
woman living, had fainted.

"Dear me !" said Wilderspin, "I had no idea that Christa-
bel's terror was so strongly rendered, — no idea ! Art should
never produce an effect like this. Romantic art knows
nothing of a mere sensational illusion. Dear me ! — I must
soften it at once."

Behind the Veil

rge and
m light
: ceiling
1 angel,
It was
of the
ent her
fully to
ms and
e silken
[-hidden
2med to
^as shed
han all.
inifred's
of hate,
e throat
2S, how-
e lady's
td robes
ickering
ruel and

289

He WciS evidently quite unconscious that he had given
my mother's features to Geraldine, and attributed the effect
to his own superlative strength as a dramatic artist.

I ran to her : she soon recovered, but asked to be taken
to Belgrave Square at once. Wild as I was with the desire to
go in quest of Winifred ; goaded as I was by a new, name-
less, shapeless dread which certain words of Wilderspin's
had aroused, but which (like the dread that had come to
me on the night of my father's funeral) was too appalling to
confront, I was obliged to leave the studio and take my
mother to the house of my aunt, who was, I knew, wait in
to start for the yacht.

I ij !•

1^1

I- ;■;

"i:m-

le terror
1st Slea-
smaller
the face
raldine ?

• :'

cnowmg
nother's
pression

th diffi-

le (as I

)w Sinfi

bravest

Christa-
t should
knows
-I must

It-*--':

•r.

XI.

The Irony of Heaven

,-t

■-? :|i

. r Hi

f ^H

XL— THE IRONY OF HEAVEN

iilil

As we stepped into the carriage, S' :aford, full of sympathy,
jumped in. This fortunately prevented a conversation that
would have been intolerable both to my mother and to me.

"Studio oppressively close," said Sleaford; "usual beastly
smell of turpentine and pigments and things. Why the
dooce don't these fellows ventilate their studios before they
get ladies to go to see their paintin's I" This he kept re-
peating, but got no response from either of us.

As to me, let me honestly confess that I had but one
thought : how much time would be required to go to Bel-
grave Square and back to the studio, to learn the where-
abouts of Winifred. "But she's safe," I kept murmuring,
in answer to that rising diead: "Wilderspin said she was
safe."

During that drive to Belgrave Square, he whose bearing
towards my mother was that of the anxious, loving son was
not I, the only living child of her womb, but poor, simple,
empty-headed Sleaford.

When we reached Belgrave Square my mother declared
that she had entirely recovered from the fainting fit, but I
scarcely dared to look into those haggard eyes of hers,
which showed only too plainly that the triumph of remorse
in her bosom was now complete. My aunt, who seemed
to guess that something lowering to the family had taken
place, was impatient to get on board the yacht. I saw how
my mother now longed to remain and learn the upshot of
events; but I told her that she was far better away now,
and that I would write to her and keep her posted up in
the story day by day. I bade them a hurried "Good-bye."

"How shall I be able to stay out of England until I know
all about her?" said my mother. "Go back and learn all

(i^i

ipf

l^f <

niv

"I '

:i I

294 Aylwin

about her, Henry, and write to me ; and be sure to get and
take care of that dreadful picture, and write to me about
that also."

When the carriage left I walked rapidly along the Square,
looking for a hansom. In a second or two Sleaford was by
my side. He took my arm.

"I suppose you're goin' back to cane him, aren't you?"
said he.

"Cane whom?" I said impatiently, for that intolerable
thought which I have hinted at was now growing within
my brain, and I must, must be alone to grapple with it.

"Cane the d d painter, of course," said Sleaford, open-

inb his great blue eyes in wonder that such a question
should be asked. "Awfully uad form that fellow goin' and
puttin' your mother in the picture. But that's just the way
with these fellows."

"What do you mean?" I asked again.

"What do I mean ? The paintin' and writin' fellows. You
can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, as I've often and
often said to Cyril Aylwin ; and by Jove, I'm right for once.
I suppose I needn't ask you if you're going back to cane
him."

"Wilderspin did what he did quite unconsciously," I re-
plied, as I hailed a hansom. "It was the finger of God."

"The finger of — Oh come ! That be hanged, old chap."

"Good-bye," I said, as I jumped into the hansom.

"But you don't mean to say you are goin' to let a man
put your mother into "

I heard no more. The terrible idea which had been
growing in my brain, shaping itself out of a nebulous mass
of reminiscences of what had just occurred at the studio,
was now stinging me to madness. Wilderspin's extreme
dejection, the strange way in which he had seemed inclined
to evade answering my question as to the safety of Wini-
fred, the look of pity on his face as at last he answered
"quite safe" — what did all these indications portend? At
every second the thought grew and grew, till my brain
seemed like a vapour of fire, and my eyeballs seemed to
scorch their sockets as I cried aloud : "Have I found her at
last to lose her ?"

On reaching the studio-door I rapped : before the servant
had time to answer my summons, I rapped again till the
sounds echoed along the street. When my summons was

ii t

et and
about

Square,
was by

you

Dlerable
; within

1 it.

d, open-
[juestion
oin' and
the way

)ws. You
Dften and
for once.
i to cane

jOQ.

d chap."

om.

let a man

had been
ilous mass
;he studio,
s extreme
ed inclined
of Wini-
i answered
rtend? At
my brain
seemed to
ound her at

the servant
rain till the
mmons was

The Irony of Heaven 295

answered, I rushed upstairs. Wilderspin stood at the
studio-door, listening, apparently, to the sound of the black-
smith's anvil coming- in from the back of Maud Street
through the open window. Though his sorrowful face told
all, 1 cried out, "Wilderspin, she's safe? You said she was
safe ?"

"My friend," said Wilderspin solemnly, "the news I have
to give you is news that I knew you would rather receive
when you could hear it alone."

"You said she was safe !"

"Yes, safe indeed! She whom you, under some strange
but no doubt beneficent hallucination, believe to be the lady
you lost in Wales, is safe indeed, for she is in the spirit-land
with her whose blessing lent her to me — she has returned
to her who was once a female blacksmith at Oldhill, and is
now the brightest, sweetest, purest saint in Paradise."

Dead ! My soul had been waiting for the word — expect-
ing it ever since I left the studio with my mother — but now
it sounded more dreadful than if it had come as a surprise.

"Tell me all," I cried, "at once — at once. She did not
return, you say, on the day following the catastrophe — when
did she return? — when did you next see her?"

"I never saw her again alive," answered Wilderspin
mournfully; "but you are so pale, Mr. Aylwin, and your
eyes are so wild, I had better defer telling you what little
more there is to tell until you have quite recovered from the
shock."

"No; now, now."

Wilderspin looked with a deep sigh at the picture of
"Faith and Love," fired by the lights of sunset, where
Winnie's face seemed alive.

"Well," said he, "as she did not come, I worked at my
painting of 'Ruth' all day; and on the next morning, as I
was starting for Primrose Court to seek her, Mrs. Gudgeon
came kicking frantically at the street-door. When it was
opened, she came stamping upstairs, and as I advanced to
meet her, she shook her fists in my face, shouting out : *I
could tear your eyes out, you vagabones.' Why, what is
the matter?' I asked in great surprise. 'You've bin and
killed her, that's all,' said the woman, foaming at the mouth.
She then told me that her daughter, almost immediately
on reaching home after having left the studio in the com-
pany of my servant, had fallen down in a swoon. J^ suc-

m I

I i!i

lii

. \,

V:
n

! I

296

Ay 1 win

cession of swoons followed. She never rallied. She was
then lying dead in Primrose Court."

"And what then? Answer me quickly."

"She asked me to give her money that her daughter
might be buried respectably and not by the parish. 1 told
her It was all hallucination about the girl being her daugh-
ter, and that a spiritual body could not be buried, but she
seemed so genuinely distressed that I gave her the money."

"Spiritual body! Hallucination!" 1 said. "I heard her
voice in the London streets, and she was selling baskets
at the theatre door. Where shall I find the house?"

"It is of no use for you to go there," he said.

"Nothing shall prevent my going at once." A feverish
yearning had come upon me to see the body,

"If you will go," said Wilderspin. "it is No. 2, Primrose
Court, Great Queen Street, Holborn."

II.

I HURRIED out of the housc, and soon finding a cab I drove
to Great Queen Street.

My soul had passed now into another torture-chamber.
It was being torn between two warring, maddening forces
— the passionate desire to see her body, and the shrinking
dread of undergoing the ordeal. At one moment I felt — as
palpably as I felt it on the betrothal night — her slim figure,
soft as a twine of flowers in my arms: at the next I was
clasping a corpse — a rigid corpse in rags. And yet I can
scarcely say that I had any thoughts. At Great Queen
Street I dismissed the cab, and had some little difficulty in
finding Primrose Coinl, a miserable narrow alley. I
knocked at a door which, even in that light, I could see was
a peculiarly wretched one. After a considerable delay the
door was opened and a face peered out — the face of the
woman whom I had seen in Cyril's studio. She did not at
first seem to recognize me. She was evidently far gone in
liquor, and looked at me, murmuring, "You're one o' the
cussed body-snatchers ; I know you : you belong to the
P.ose Alley 'Fort)' Thieves.' You'll swing — every man Jack
o' ye'll swing yet, mind if you don't."

was

ghtcr
L told
lugh-
it she
»ney.
cl her
iskcts

verish

mrose

drove

amber,
forces
rinking
elt— as
figure,
1 was
It I can
Queen
ulty in
ey. I
ee was
ilay the
of the
not at
one in
o' the
to the
|an Jack

The Irony of Heaven 297

At the sight of the squaHd house in which Winifred had
Hved and died I passed into a new world of horror. Dead
matter had become conscious, and for a second or two it
was not the human being before me, but the rusty iron, the
broken furniture, the great patches of brick and (Hrty mor-
tar where the plaster had fallen from the walls, — it was these
which seemed to have life, — a terrible life — and to be talking
to me, telling me what I dared not listen to about the
triumph of evil over good. I knew that the woman was
still speaking, but for a time I heard no sound — my senses
could receive no impressions save from the sinister elo-
quence: of the dead and yet living matter around me. Not
an object there that did not seem charged with the wicked
message of the heartless Fates.

At length, and as I stood upon the cioorstep, a trembling,
a mighty expectance, seized me like an ague-fit ; and I
heard myself saying, "J am come to see the body, Mrs.
Gudgeon." Then I saw her peer, blinking, into my face,
as she said:

"Oh, oh, it's you, is it? It's one o' the lot as keeps the
studeros, is it? — the cussed Chelsea lot as killed her. I
recklet yer a-starin' at the goddess Joker ! So you'r come
to see my poor darter's bcdy, are you? How werry kind,
to be sure! Pray come in, gentleman, an' pray let the
beautiful goddess Joker be perlite an' show sich a nice kind
wisiter the way up-stairs."

She took a candle, and with a mincing, mocking move-
ment, curtseying low at every step, she backed befw/e me,
and then stood waiting at the foot of the staircase with a
drunken look of satire on her features.

"Pray go up-stairs fust, gentleman," said she; "I can't
think o' goin' up fust, an' lettin' my darter's kind wisiter
foller behind like a sarvint. I 'opes we knows our manners
better nor that comes to in Primrose Court."

"None of this foolery now, woman," said I. "Therr.'s a
time for everything, you know."

"How right he is !" she exclaimed, nodding to the flicker-
ing candle in her hand. "There's a time for everythink,
an' this is the time for makin' a peep-show of my pore
darter's body. Oh, yes !"

I mounted a shaky staircase, the steps of which were
some of them so broken away that the ascent was no
easy matter. The miserable light from the woman's candle,

l/«^

[ff'V

, I'

298

Aylwin

as I entered the room, seemed suddenly to shoot up in
a column of dazzling brilliance that caused me to close my
eyes in pain, so unnaturally sensitive had they been ren-
dered by the terrible expectance of the sight that was about
to sear them.

1 1

When I re-opened my eyes, T perceived that in the room
there was one window, which looked like a trap-door; on
tl^e red pantiles of the opposite roof lay a smoke-dimmed
sheet of moonlight. On the floor at the further end of the
garret, where the roof met the boards at a sharp angle, a
mattres"" was spread. Then speech came to me.

"Not there!" I groaned, pointing to the hideous black-
looking bed, and turning my head away in terror. The
woman burst into a cackling laugh.

"Not there? Who said she zi'iis there? / didn't. If
you can see anythink there besides a bed an' a quilt, you've
got eyes as can make picturs out o' nothink, same as my
darter's eyes could make 'em, pore desr."

"Ah, what do you mean?" I cried, leaping to the side
of the mattress, upon which I now saw that no dead form
was lying.

For a moment a flash of joy as dazzling as a fork of
lightnmg seemed to strike through my soul and turn my
blood into a liquid fire that rose and blinded my eyes.

"Not dead," I cried ; "no, no, no ! The pitiful heavens
would have rained blood and tears at such a monstrous
tragedy. She is not dead — not dead after all ! The hideous
dream is passing."

"Oh, ain't she dead, pore dear? — ain't she? She's dead
enough for one," said the woman ; "but 'ow can she be
there on that mattress, when she's buried, an' the prayers
read over her, like the darter of the most 'spectable mother
as ever lived in Primrose Court! That's what the
I'eighbours say o' me. The most 'spectable mother as
ever "

"Buried!" I sard, "who buried her?"

"Who buried her? Why, the parish, in course."

Despair then again seemed to send a torrent of ice-water
through my veins. But after a time the passionate desire to
see her body leapt up within my heart.

At this moment Wilderspin, who had evidently followed

»^B53

p in

I my

ren-

ibout

room
r; on
nmcd
of the
gle, a

black-
The

I't. If
you've

as my

lie side
,d form

fork of
Lirn my

leavens
nstrous
hideous

s dead

she be

prayers

mother

hat the

)ther as

ce-water
desire to

followed

The Irony of Heaven 299

me with remarkable expedition, came upstairs and stood by
my side.

"I must go and see the grave," I said to him. "I must
see her face once more. I must petition the Home Secre-
tary. Nothing can and nothing shall prevent my seeing
her — no, not if I have to dig down to her with my nails."

"An' who the dickens are you as takes on so about my
darter?" said the woman, holding the candle to my face.

"Drunken brute !" said I , "Where is she buried ?"

"Well, I'm sure !" said the woman in a mincing, sarcastic
voice. "How werry unpcrlite you is all at wunst ! how werry
rude you speaks to such a werry 'spf'ctable party as I am !
You seem to forgit who I am. Ain't I the goddess as
likes to 'ave 'er little joke, an' likes to wet both eyes, and
as plays sich larks with her flummeringeroes and drum-
ming-dairies an' ring-tailed monkeys an' men?"

When I saw the creature whip up the quilt from the
mattress, and holding it over her head like a veil, leer
hideously in imitation of Cyril's caricature, a shudder went
again through my frame — a strange kind of dementia came
upon me ; my soul again seemed to leave my body — seemed
to be lifted through the air and beyond the stars, crying
in agony, "Shall there be evil in a city, and the Lord hath
not done it?" Yet all the while, though my soul seemed
fleeing through infinite space, where a pitiless universe
was waltzing raadly round a ball of cruel fire — all the while
I was acutely conscious of looking down upon the dreadful
dream-world below, looking down into a frightful garret
where a dialogue between two dream-figures was going
on — a dialogue between Wilderspin and the woman, each
word of which struck upon my ears like a sharp-edged
flint, though it seemed millions of miles away.

"What made you trick me like this ? Where is the money
I gave you for the funeral ?"

"That's werry true, about that money, an' where is it?
The orkerdest question about money alius is — 'Where is
it?' The money for that funeral I 'ad. I won't deny that.
The orkerd question ain't that : it's 'Where is it?' But you
see, arter 1 left your studero I sets on that pore gal's bed
a-cryin' fit to bust ; then I goes out into Clement's Alley,
and I calls on Mrs. Mix — that's a werry dear friend of mine,

i'^

ia'

300

Aylwin

the mother o' seven child'n as are alius a-settin' on my
doorstep, an' she comes out of Yorkshire you must know,
an' ihe's been a streaker in her day (for she was well off
wonst was Mrs. Mix afore she 'ad them seven dirty-nosed
child'n as sets on her neighbours' doorsteps) — an' she sez,
sez she, 'My pore Meg' (meanin' me) I've bin the mother
o' fourteen beautiful clean-nosed child'n, an' I've streaked
an' buried sevtn on 'em, so I ought to knov/ somethink
about corpuses, an* I tell you this corpse o' your darter's
must be streaked an' buried at wonst, for she died in a
swownd. An' there's nothink like the parishes for buryin'
folk quick, an' I dessay the coffin's ordered by this time,
an' I dessay the gjnt gev you that money just to make you
comfable like, seein' as he killed your darter.' That's what
Mrs. Mix says to me. So the parish comed an' brought a
coffin an' tookt her, pore dear. And I've cried myself
stupid-like, bein' her pore mother as *es lost her on'y darter
— an* I was just a-i'ryin' to make myself comfable when this
'ere young toflf as seems so werry drunk comes a-rappin' at
my door fit to rap the 'ouse down."

"Has she been buried at all? How can a spiritual body
be buried?"

" 'Buried at all ?' What do you mean by insinivatin' to
the pore gal's conflicted mother as she p'rap's ain't buried
at all? You're a-makin' me cry ag'in. She lays comfable
enough underneath a lot of other coffins, in the pauper part
of the New North Cimingtary."

"Underneath a lot of others ; how can that be ?"

"What ! ain't you toflfs never seed a pauper finneral ? Now
that's a pity ; and sich nice toffs as they are, a-settin' their-
selves up to look arter the darters o' pore folks. P'raps
you never thought how we was buried. We're buried, when
our time comes, and then they're werry kind to us, the
parish toffs is : — It's in a lump — six at a time — as they buries
us, and sich nice deal coffins they makes us, the parish
toffs does, an* sich nice lamp-black they paints 'em with to
make *em look as if they was covered with the best black
velvid ; an' then sich a nice sarmint — none o' your retail sar-
mints, but a hulsale sarmint — they reads over the lot, an*
into one hole they packs us one atop o' the other, jest like
a pile o' the werry best Yarmith bloaters, an' that's a good
deal more sociable an' comfable, the parish toffs thinks,
than puttin* us in single ; so it is, for the matter o' that."^ ^

7 'v.j^'-* pxT^rp* -'^^,'-r»:>.y 'avtywff^ .

The Irony of Heaven

301

I my
:now,

II off
losed
e sez,
other
eaked
tthink
irter's

I in a '
uryin'
time,
ce you
3 what
Light a
myself
darter
en this
>pin' at

il body

atin' to

buried

)mfable

)er part

I? Now
their-

P'raps

d, when

us, the

y buries

I parish

with to
St black
jtail sar-

lot, an*
jest hke
; a c:ood
; thinks,
that." ,

< i

Then I heard no more; for at the intolerable pictuie
called up by the woman's words, my soul in its misery
seemed to have soared, scared and trembling, above and
beyond the heavens at whose futile gates it had been moan-
ing, till at last it sank at the feet of the mighty power that
my love had striven with on the sands of Raxton when the
tide was coming in — some pale and cruel ruler whose brow
I saw wrinkled with the woman's mocking smile — some
frightful columbine-queen, wicked, bowelless and blind,
shaking a starry cap and bells, and chanting —

"I lent the drink of Day

To gods for feast;
I poured the river of Night

On gods sr.rceased:
Their blood was Nin-kt-gal's."

And there at the feet of the awful jesting hag, Circumstance,
I could only cry "Winnie! my poor Winnie!" while over
my head seemed to pass Necessity and her black ages of
despair.

When I came to myself I said to the woman :

"You can point out the grave?"

"Well, yes," said she, turning round sharply ; "but may I
ax who the dickens you are? — an' what makes you so cut
up about a pore woman's darter? It's right-on beautiful to
see how kind gentlemen is now-a-days" ; and she turned
and tried, stumbling, to lead the way downstairs.

As we left the room I turned round to look at it. The
picture of the mattress, now nearly hidden in the shadows—
the picture of the other furniture in the room — two chairs —
or rather one and a part of a chair, for the rails of the back
were gone — a table, a large brown jug, the handle of which
had been replaced by a piece of string, and a white wash-
hand basin, with most of the rim broken away, and a shal-
low tub apparently used for a bath — seemed to sink into
my flesh as though bitten in by the etcher's aquafortis.

Winifred's sleeping room !

"Of course she wasn't her daughter," said Wilderspin,
meditativelv, as we stood on the stairs.

"Not my darter! Why, in course she was. What an
imperent thing to say, suvQlie !"

"There is one thing I wish to say to you," said he to the
woman. "When I agreed with you as to the sum to be paid

! f.

;' i "

- ?«^..7«ifpiy^TCT~

i '■/

' if '- 1

i,|i

302 Aylwirt

for the moders sittings, it was clearly understood that she
was to sit to no other artist, and that the match-selling was
to cease."

"Well, and 'ave I broke my word?''

"A person has heard her singing and seen her selling
baskets," I said.

"The person tells a lie," said the woman, with a dogged
and sullen look, and in a voice that grew thicker with every
word. "Ain't there sich things as doubles?"

At these last words my heart gave a sudden lean.

We left the house, and neither of us spoke till we got into
the Strand.

"Did you see the — body at all?" I asked Wilderspin.

"Oh, yes. After I gave her the money for the funeral I
went to Primrose Court. The woman took me upstairs,
and there on the mattress lay — what the poor woman be-
lieved to be the earthly body of an earthly daughter. It
was covered with a quilt. Over the face a ragged shawl
had been thrown."

"Yes, yes. She raised the shawl ?"

"Yes, the woman went and held the candle over the head
of the mattress and uncovered the face ; and there lay she
whom the woman believed to be her datighter, and whom
you believe to be the young lady you seek, but whom I
krww to be a spiritual body — the perfect type that was sent
to me in order that I might fulfill my mission. You groan,
Mr. Aylwin, but remember that you have lost only a dream,
a beautiful hallucination ; I have lost z reality : there is noth-
ing real but the spiritual world."

III.

As I wandered about the streets after parting from Wilder-
spin, what were my emotions? If I could put them into
words, is there one human being in ten thousand who
would understand me ? Happily, no. For there is not one
in ten thousand who, having sounded the darkest depths
of human misery, will know how strong- is Hope when at
the true death-struggle with Despair. "Hope in the human
breast," wrote my father, "is a passion, a wild, a lawless, and
an indomitable passion, that almost no cruelty of Fate can
conquer."

lat she
ng was

selling

dogged
h every

got into

spin,
uneral I
upstairs,
man be-
lter. It
;d shawl

the head
I. lay she
whom
whom I
was sent
u groan,
a dream,
is noth-

Wilder-
lem into
md who

not one
it depths

when at

|e human

less, and

iFate can

The Irony of Heaven 303

Many a passer-by in the streets of London that niglit
nuist have asked himself, What lunatic is this at large? At
one iroment I would bound along the pavement as though
propelled by wings, scarcely seeming to touch the pave-
ment with my feet. At the next I would stop in a cold
perspiration and say to myself, "Idiot, is it possible that
you, so learned in suffering — you, whom Destiny, or
Heaven, or Hell, has taken in hand as a special sport — can
befool yourself with Hope now, after the terrible comedy
by which you and the ancestral idiots from whom you
sprang amused Queen Nin-ki-gal in Raxton crypt?"

Hope and Despair were playing at shuttlecock with my
soul. Underneath my misery there flickered a thought
which, wild as it was, I dared not dismiss — the thcaght that,
after all, it might not be Winifred who had died in that den.
Possible it was — however improbable — that I might be
Jiabouring under a delusion. My imagination might have ex-
aggerated a resemblance into actual identity, ai.d Winifred
and she whom Wilderspin painted might be two different
persons — and there might be hope even yet. But so mo-
mentous was the issue to my soul, that the mere fact of
having clearly marshalled the arguments on the side of
Hope made my reason critical ind suspicious of their
cogency. From the sweet sophisms that my reason had
called up, I turned, and there stood Despair, ready for me
behind a phalanx of arguments, which laughed all Hope's
"ragged regiment" to scorn.

Had not my mother recognised her? Could the infalli-
ble pe/ceptive faculties of my mother be also deceived ?

But to accept the fact that she who died on that mattress
was little Winnie of the sands was to go stark mad, aud the
very instinct of self-preservation made me clutch at every
sophism Hope could offer.

"Did not the woman declare that the singing-girl and
the model were not one and the same ?" said Hope. "And
if she did not lie, may you not have been, after all, hunting
a shadow through London?

"It might not have been Winifred," I shouted.

But no sooner had I done so than the scene .a the studio
— Wilderspin's story of the model's terror on seeing my
mother's portrait — came upon me, and "Dead ! dead !" rang
through me like a funereal knell ; all the superstructure of
Hope's sophisms was shattered in a moment like a house of

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304 Aylvvin

cards : my iiiiaginuLioii Hew away to all the London grave-
yards I had ever heard of ; and there, in the part divided by
the pauper line, my soul hovered over a grave newly made,
and then dived down from coffin to coffin, one piled above
another, till it reached Winifred, lying pressed down by the
superincumbent mass ; those eyes staring.
Yes ; that night I was mad !

)|C ^ ^ 3|C 9|C 3|C

I could not walk fatigue into my restless limbs.

Morning broke in curdling billows of fire over the east of
London — which even at this early hour was slowly growing
hazy with smoke. I found myself in Primrose Court, look-
ing at that squalid door, those squalid windows. I knocked
at the door. No answer came to my summons, and I
knocked again and again. Then a window opened above
my head, and I heard the well-known voice of th- woman
e:.'"laiming:

"Who's that? Poll Onion's out to-night, and the rooms
are emp'y 'cept mine. Why, God bless me, man, is it you?"

"Hag ! that was not your daughter."

She slammed the window down.

"Let me in, or I will break the door."

The window was opened again.

"Lucky as I didn't leave the front door open to-night,
as I mostly do. What do you want to skeer a pore woman
for?" she bawled. "Go away, else I'll call up the people
in Great Oueen Street."

"Mrs. Gudgeon, all I want to do is to ask you a question."

"Ah, but that's what you jis' zvon't do, my fine gentleman.
I don't let you in again in a hurry."

"I will give you a sovereign."

"Honour bright ?" bawled the old woman ; "let me look
at it."

"Here it is in my hand."

"Jink it on the stuns."

I threw it down.

"Quid seems to jink all right, anyhow," she said, "though
I'm more used to jink of a tanner than a quid in these
cussed times. You won't skeer me if I come down ?"

"No, no."

At last I heard her fumbling inside at the lock and then
the door opened.

;^ravc-
led by
made,
above
by the

east of
rowing
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and I
1 above
woman

2. rooms
it you?"

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woman
people

lestion
[itlcman.

look

"though
in these

.?"

and then

The Irony of Heaven 305

"Why, man alive! your eyes are afire jist like a cat's wi'
drownded kitlins."

"She was not your daughter."

"Not my darter?" said she, as she stopped to pick up
the sovereign. "You ain't a-goin' to catch me the likes o'
that. The Beauty not my darter! All the court knows
she was my own on'y darter. I'll swear afore all the beaks
in London as I'm the mother of my on'y darter Winifred,
alius wur 'er mother, and alius wuU be; an' if she went
a-beggin' it worn't my fort. She liked beggin', poor dear ;
some gals does."

"Her name Winifred !" I cried, with a pang at my heart
as sharp as though there had been a reasonable hope till
now.

"In course her name was Winifred."

"Liar ! How came she to be called Winifred ?"

"Well, I'm sure! Mayn't a Welsh-man's wife give her
own on'y Welsh darter a Welsh name? Us poor folks is
come to somethink! P'raps you'll say I ain't a Welsh-
man's wife next? It's your own cussed lot as killed her,
ain't it? What did I tell the shiny Quaker when fust I
tookt her to the studero? I sez to the shiny un, 'She's
ji.'t a bit touched here,' I sez" (tapping her own head),
" 'and notliink upsets her so much as to be arsted a lot o'
questions,' 1 sez to the shiny un. *Tlic less you talks to her,'
I sez, 'the better you'll get on with her,' I sez, 'and the
better kind o' pictur you'll make out on her,' I sez to the
shiny un ; 'an' don't you go an' arst who her father is,' I
sez, 'for that word 'ull bring such a horful look on her face,'
I sez, 'as is enough to skeer anybody to death. I sha'n't
forget the look the fust time I seed it,' I sez. That's what
I sez to the shiny Quaker. An' yit you did go an' worrit
'er, a-arstin' 'er a lot o' questions about 'er father. You did
— I know you did! You must 'a' done it — so no lies; for
that wur the on'y thing as ever skeered 'er, arstin' 'er about
'er father, pore dear. . . . Why, man alive! what are you
a-gurnin' at? an' what are you a-smackin' your forred wi'
your 'and like that for, an' a-gurnin' in my face like a
Chessy cat? Blow'd if I don't b'lieve you're drunk. An'
who the dickens are you a-callin' a fool, Mr. Imperance?"

It was not the woman but myself I was cursing when I
cried out, "Fool ! besotted fool !"

Not till now had the wild hope fled which had led mc

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Aylwin

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back to the den. As I stood shuddering on the door-step
in the cold morning Hght, while the whole unbearable truth
broke in upon me, I could hear her lips murmuring :

"Fool of ancestral supersitions ! Fenella Stanley's fool !
Philip Aylwin's fool! Where was the besotted fool and
plaything of besotted ancestors, when the truth was burn-
ing so close beneath his eyes that it is wonderful they were
not scorched into recognising it? Where was he when, but
for superstitions grosser than those of the negroes on the
Niger banks, he might have saved the living heart and
centre of his little world ? Where was the rationalist when
but for superstitions sucked in with his mother's milk, he
would have gone to a certain studio, seen a certain picture
which would have sent him on the wings of the wind to find
and rescue and watch over the one for whom he had re-
nounced all the ties of kindred ? Where was then the most
worthy descendant of a line of ancestral idiots — Romany
antl Gorgio — stretching back to the days when man's com-
peers, the mammoth and the cave-bear, could have taught
him better ? Rushing down to Raxton church to save her !
— to save her by laying a poor little trinket upon a dead
man's breast!"

After the paroxysm of self-scorn had nartly exhausted
itself, I stood staring in the woman's face.

"Well," said she, "I thought the shiny Quaker was a rum
'un, but blow me if you ain't a rummyer."

"Her name was Winifred, and the word 'Father' pro-
duced fits," I said, not to the woman, but to my soul, in
mocking answer to its own woe. "What about my father's
spiritualism now ? Good God ! Is there no other ancestral
tomfoolery, no other of Superstition's patent Aylvvmian
soul-salves for the philosophical Nature-worshipper and
apostle of rationalism to fly to ? Her name was Winifred !"

"Yis; don't I say 'er name wur Winifred?" said the
woman, who thought I was addressing her. "You're jist
like a poll-parrit with your 'Winifred, Winifred, Winifred.'
That was 'er name, an' she 'ad a shock, pore dear, an' it
was all along of you at the studero a-talkin' about 'er father.
You must a-talked about 'er father: so no lies. She 'ad
fits arter that, in course she 'ad. Why, you'll make me die
a-larfin' with your poll-parritin' ways, sayin' *a shock, a
shock, a shock,' arter me. In course she 'ad a shock; she

The Irony of Heaven 307

'ad it when she was a little gal o' six. My pore Bill (that's
my 'usband as now lives in the fine 'Straley) was a'most
killed a'fightin' a Irishman. They brought 'im 'um an' laid
'im afore 'cr werry eyes, an' the sight throw'd 'cr into
high-strikos, an' arter that the name of 'father' alius throwcd
'er into high-strikes, an' that's why I told 'em at the
studero never to say that word. An' I know you must
'a' said it, some o' your cussed lot must, or else why should
my pore darter 'a' 'ad the high-strikes ? Nothin' else never
gev 'er no high-strikes only talkin' to 'er about 'er father.
An' as to me a-sendin' 'cr a-beggin', I tell you she liked
beggin'. I gev her baskets to sell, an' flowers to sell, an'
yet she woidd beg. I tell you she liked beggin'. Some
gals does She was touched in the 'ead, an' she used to say
she must beg, an' there was nothink she used to like so
much as to stan' with a box o' matches a-jabberin' a tex'
out o' the Bible unless it was singin'. There you are,
a-larfin' and a-gurnin' agin. If I wur on'y 'arf as drunk as
you are the coppers 'ud 'a' run mc in hours ago ; cuss 'em,
an' their favouritin' ways."

At the truth flashing in upon me through these fantastic
lies, I had passed into that mood when the grotesque
wickedness of Fate's awards can draw from the victim no
loud lamentations — when there are no frantic blows aimed
at the sufferer's own poor eyeballs till the beard — like the
self-mutilated Theban king's — is bedewed with a dark hail-
shower of blood. More terrible because more inhuman
than the agony imagined by the great tragic poet is that
most awful condition of the soul into which I had passed
— when the cruelty that seems to work at Nature's heart,
to vitalize a dark universe of pain, loses its mysterious
aspect and becomes a mockery; when the whole vast and
merciless scheme seems too monstrous to be confronted
save by mad peals of derisive laughter — that dreadful laugh-
ter which bubbles lower than the fount of tears — that laugh-
ter which is the heart's last language ; when no words can
give it the relief of utterance — no words, nor wails, nor
moans.

"Another quid," bawled the woman after me, as I turned
away, "another quid, an' then I'll tell you somethink to
\our awantagc. Out with it, and don't spile a good mind."

What I did and said that morning as I wandered througli

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Aylwin

the streets of London in that State of tearless despair and
mad unnatural merriment, one hour of which will age a
man more than a decade of any woe that can find a voice in
lamentations, remains a blank in my memory.

I found myself at the corner of Essex Street, staring
across the Strand, which, even yet, had scarcely awoke into
life. Presently I felt my sleeve pulled, and heard the
woman's voice.

"You didn't know as I was cluss behind you all the
while, a-watchin' your tantrums. Never spile a good mind,
my young swell. Out with t'other quid, an' then I'll tell
you somethink about my pootty darter as is on my mind."

I gave her money, but got nothing from her save more
incoherent lies and self-contradictions about the time of the
funeral.

"Point out the spot where she used to stand and beg.
No, don't stand on it yourself, but point it out."

"This is the werry spot. She used to hold out her
matches like this 'ere, — my darter used, — an' say texes out
o' the Bible. She loved beggin', pore dear !"

"Texts from the Bible?" I saici, staggering under a new
thought that seemed to strike through me like a bar of hot
metal. "Can you remember any one of them ?"

"It was alius the same tex', an' I ought to remember it
well enough, for I've 'eerd it times enough. She wur
like you for poll-parrittin' ways, and used to say the same
thing over an' over agin. It wur alius, *Let his children be
wagabones and beg their bread ; let them seek it also out
of desolate places.' Why, you're at it ag'in — gurnin' ag'in.
You must be drunk."

Again there came upon me the involuntary laughter of

heart-agony at its tensest. I cried aloud : "Faith and Love !

Faith and Love ! That farce of the Raxton crypt with the

great-grandmother's fool on his knees shall be repeated for

the delight of Nin-ki-gal and the Danish skeletons and the

ancestral ghosts from Hugh the Crusader down to the hero

of the knee-caps and mittens ; and there shall be a dance

of death and a song, and the burden shall be —

" 'As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods:
They kill us for their sport.' "

Misery had made me a maniac at last; my brain swam,
and the head of the woman seemed to be growing before

The Irony of Heaven

309

me — seemed once more to be transfigured before me into
a monstrous mountainous representation of an awful mock-
ery-goddess and columbine-queen, down whose merry
wrinkles were flowing tears that were at once tears of
Olympian laughter and tears of the oceanic misery of Man.

"Well, you are a rum 'un, and no mistake," said the
woman. "But who the dickens are you? That's what licks
me. Who the dickens arc you? Howsomcver, if you'll
fork out another quid, the Queen of the Jokcs'll tell you
some'ink to your awantage, an* if you won't fork out the
Queen o' the Jokes is mum."

I stood and looked at her — looked till the street seemed
to heave under my feet and the houses to rock. After
this I seem to have wandered back to Wilderspin's studio,
and there to have sunk down unconscious.

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swam,
before

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XII.

The Revolving Cage of
Circumstance

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XII THE REVOLVING CAGE

OF CIRCUMSTANCE

I WILL not trouble the reader with details of the illness that
came upon me as the result of my mental agony and physi-
cal exhaustion. At intervals I was aware of what was going
on around nie, but for the most part I was in a semi-coma-
tose state. I realised at intervals that a medical man was
sitting by my side, as I lay in bed. Then I had a sense of
being moved from place to place ; and then of being rocked
by the waves.' Slowly the periods of consciousness became
more frequent and also more prolonged.

My first exclamation was — "Dead! Have I been ill?"
and I tried to raise myself in vain.

"Yes, very ill," said a voice, my mother's.

"Dangerously?"

"For several days you were in danger. Your recovery
now entirely depends upon your keeping yourself calm."

"I am out at sea?"

"Yes," said my mother ; "in Lord Sleaford's yacht."

"How did I come here?"

"Well, Henry, I was so anxious to wait for a day or two
to learn the sequel of the dreadful tragedy, that I persuaded
Lord Sleaford to delay sailing. Next day he called at Bel-
grave Square, and told us he had heard that you had been
taken suddenly ill and were lying unconscious at the studio.
I went at once and sa^" the medical man, Mr. Finch, whom
Mr. Wilderspin had called in. This gentleman took a
serious view of your case. When I asked him what could
be done he said that nothing would benefit you so nuich as
removal from London, and recommended a sea voyage.
It occurred to me at once to ask Lord Sleaford if we might

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314 Aylwin

take you in his yacht, and he witli his usual good nature
agreed, and agreed also that Mr. l^nch should accompany
us as your medical attendant."

"You know all ?" I said ; "you know that she is dead."

"Alas lyes."

At that moment the doctor came into the cabin, and my
mother retired.

"When did you last see Wilderspin?" I asked Mr. Finch.

"Before leaving England to join a friend in Paris he went
to Belgrave Square to get tidings of you, and I was there."

'He told you — what had occurred to make me ill?"

"He told me that it was the death of some one in whom
you took an interest, a model of his, but told it in such a
wild and excited way that I lost patience with him. His
addled brains are crammed with the wildest and most
ignorant superstitions."

"Did you ask him about her burial?"

"I did. I gathered from him that she was buried by l;ii
parish in the usual way. But I assure you the man's
account of everything that occurred was so bewildered and
so incoherent that I could really make nothing out of him.
What is his creed? Is it Swedenborgianism ? He seems
to think that the model he has lost is a spirit (or spintual
body, to use his own jargon) sent to him by the artistic-
minded spirits for entirely artistic purposes, but snatched
from him now by the mean jeal';Lisy of the same spirit-
world."

"But what did he say about her burial?"

"Well, he seems not to have ignored so completely the
numdane question of burying this spiritual body as his
creed would have warranted, for he gave the mother money
to bury it. The mother, however, seems to have spent the
money in gin and to have left the duty of burying the spir-
itual body to the parish, who make short work of all bodies ;
and, of rourse, by the parish she was buried, you may rest
assurod of that, though the artist seems to think that she
was simply translated to heaven like Elijah."

"I must return to England at once," I said. "T shall
applv to the Home Secretary to have the body disinterred."

"Why, sir?"

"In order that she may be buried in a proper place, to
be sure."

"No use. You have no locus standi."

j.",i;fcii-....w.j,

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 3 1 5

"What do you mean?"

"You are not a relative, and to ask for a disinterment for
such an unimportant reason as that you, a stranger, would
prefer to see her buried elsewLore, would be idle."

Sleaford now came into the cabin. I thanked him for his
kindness, but told him I must return at once.

"Even if your health permitted," he said, "it is impossible
for the yacht to go back. I have an appointment to meet
a yachting friend. But in any case depend upon it, old
fellow, the doctor won't hear of your returning for a long
while yet. He told me not five minutes ago that nothing
but sea air, and keeping your mind tranquil, you know,
will restore you."

The feenng of exhaustion that came upon me as he
spoke convinced me that there was only too much truth
in his words. I felt that I must yield to the inevitable ; but
as to tranquillity of mind, my entire being was now filled
with a yearning to see the New North Cemetery — to see
her grave. I seemed to lon'^ for the very pang which I
knew the sight of the grave would give me.

It is of course impossible for me to linger over that cruise,
or to record any of the incidents that took place at the ports
at which we touched and landed. My recovery, or rather
my partial recovery, was slower than the doctor had an-
ticipated. Weekr and months passed, and still there seemed
but little improvement in me.

The result was that I was obliged to yiela to the impor-
tunities of my mother, and to the urgent advice of Dr.
Finch, to remain on board Sleaford's yacht during the
entire cruise, and afterwards to go with them to Italy.

Absence from England gave me not the smallest respite
from the grief that was destroying me.

My parting with my mother was a very pathetic one. She
was greatly changed, and I knew why. The furrows Time
sets on the face can never be mistaken for those which
are caused by the passions. The struggle between pride
and remorse had been going on apace ; her sufferings had
been as great as my owr

It was in Rome we parted. We were sitting in the cool,
perfumed atmosphere of St. Peter's, and for the moment a
soothing wave seemed to pass over my soul. For some

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little time there had been silence between us. At length I
said, "Mother, it seems strange indeed for me to have to
say to you that you blamed yourself too much for the part
you took in the tragedy of Winnie. When you sent her into
Wales you didn't know that her aunt was dead ; you did it,
as you thought, for her good as well as for mine."

She rose as if to embrace me and then sank down again.

"But you don't know all, Henry; you don't know all. I
knew her aunt was dead, though Shales did not, or he
would never have taken her. All that concerned me was to
get her away before your own recovery. I thought there
might be relatives of hers or frienus whom Shales might
find. But I was possessed by a frenzied desire to get her
away. For years my eyes had been fixed on the earldom.
I had been told by your aunt that Cyril was consumptive,
and also that he was very unlikely to marry."

I could not suppress a little laugh. "Ha, ha! Cyril con-
sumptive! No man's stronger and sounder, I am glad to
tell you; but if by ill-chance he should die and the title
should come to me, then, mother, I'll wear the coronet, and
it shall be made of the best gingerbread gilt and ornamented
thus. I'll give public lectures on the British aristocracy and
its origin, and its present relations to the community, and
my audience shall consist of society — that society which
is so much to aunt and the likes of her. Society shall be
my audience, and then, after my course of lectures is over,
I will join the Gypsies. But pray pardon me, mother. I
had no idea I should thus lose my temper. I should not
have lost it so entirely had I not witnessed how you are
suffering from the tyranny of this blatant bugbear called
'Society.' "

"'My suffering, Henr\, has brought me nearer to your
line of thought than you may suppose. It has taught me
that when the affections are deeply touched everything
which before had seemed so momentous stands out in a
new light, that light in which the insignificance of the im-
portant stands revealed. In that terrible conflict between
you and me on the night following the landslip, you spoke
of my 'cruel pride.* Oh, Henry, if you only knew how that
cruel pride had been wiped out of existence by remorse, I
believe that even you would forgive me. I believe that
even she would if she were here."

"I told you that I had entirely forgiven you, mother, and

your
it me
ythin
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le im-
tween
spoke
»w that
orse, I
re that

er,

and

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 317

that I was sure Wjnnic would forg;ive you if she were
ahve."

"You did, Henry, but it did not satisfy me; I feU that you
did not know all."

"I fear you have been very unhappy," I said.

"I have been constantly thinking of Winifred a beggar in
the streets as devScribed by Wilderspin. Oh, Henry, I used
to think of her in the charge of that woman. And Miss
Dalrymple, who educated her, tells me that in culture she
was far above the girls of her own class ; and this makes
the degradation into which she was forced through me the
more dreadful for me to think of. I used to think of her
dying in the squalid den, and then the Italian sunshine has
seemed darker than a London fog. Even the corr'ort that
your kind words gave me \i'as incomplete, for you did not
know the worst features of my cruelty."

"But have you had no respite, mother? Surely the in-
tensity of this pain did not last, or it would have killed
you."

"The crisis did pass, for, as you say, had it lasted in its
most intense form, it would have killed me or sent me mad.
After a while, though remorse was always with me, I
seemed to become in some degree numbed against its sting.
I could bear at last to live, but :hat was all. Yet there
was always one hour out of twent3''-four when I was over-
mastered by pathetic memories, such as nearly killed me
with pity — one hour when, in a sudden and irresistible
storm, grief would still come upon me with almost its old
power. This was on awaking in the early morning. I
learnt then that if there is trouble in the founts of life, there
is nothing which stirs that trouble like the twitter of the
birds at dawn. At Florence, I would, after spending the
day in wandering with you through picture galleries or
about those lovely spots near Fiesole, go to bed at night
tolerably calm ; I w^ould sink into a sleep, haunted no longer
by those dreams of the tragedy in which my part had been
so cruel, and yet the very act of waking in the morning
would bring upon me a whirlwind of anguish; and then
would come the struggling light at the window, and the
twitter of the birds that seemed to say, 'Poor child, poor
child !' and I \v^ould bury my face in my pillow and moan."
When I looked in her face, I realised for the first time
that not even such a passion of pity as that which had aged

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Aylwin

nie is so cruel in its ravages as Remorse. To gaze at her
was so painful that I turned my eyes away.

When I could speak I said :

"I have forgiven you from the bottom of my heart,
mother, but, if that does not give you comfort, is there
anything that will?'

"Nothing, Henry, nothing but whit is impossible for me
ever to get — the forgiveness of the wronged child herself.
That I can never get in this world. I dare only hope that
by prayers and tears I may get it in the end. Oh, Henry,
if I were in heaven I could never rest until I had sought
her out, and found her and thrown myself on her neck and
said, 'Forgive your persecutor, my dear, or this is no place
for me.' "

II.

As soon ai I reached London, thinking that Wilderspin
was still on the Continent, I went first to D'Arcy's studio,
but was there told that D'Arcy was away — that he had
been in the country for a long time, busy painting, and
would not return for some months. I then went to Wilder-
spin's studio, and found, to my surprise and relief, that
he and Cyril had returned from Paris. I learnt from the
servant that Wilderspin had just gone to call on Cyril;
accordingly to Cyril's studio I went.

"He is engage*^ with the Gypsy-model, sir," said Cyril's
man, pointing to the studio door, which was ajar. "He told
me that if ever you should call you were to be admitted at
once. Mr. Wilderspin is there too."

"You need not announce me," I said as I pushed open
the door.

Entering the studio, I found myself behind a tall easel
where Cyril was at work. I was concealed from him, and
also from Wilderspin and Sinfi. On my left stood Cyril's
caricature of Wilderspin's "Faith and Love," upon which
the light from a window was falling aslant.

Before I could pass round the easel into the open space
I was arrested by overhearing a conversation between Cyril,
Sinfi and Wilderspin.

They were talking about herl

With my eyes fixed on Cyril's caricature on my left hand,

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 319

I stood; every nerve in my body seeming to listen to the
talk, while the veil of the goddess-queen in the caricature
appeared to become illuminated; the tragedy of our love
(from the spectacle of her father's dead body shining in
the moonlight, with a cross on his breast, down to the
hideous-grotesque scene of the woman at the corner of
Essex Street, appeared to be represented on the veil of the
mocking Queen in little pictures of scorching flame. These
are the words I heard :

"Keep your head in that position. Lady Sinfi," said Cyril,
"and pray do not get so excited."

"I thought I felt the Swimmin' Rei in the room," said
Sinfi.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought I felt the stir of him in my burk [bosom].
Howsomever, it must ha' bin all a fancy o' mine. But you
see, Mr. Cyril, she wur once a friend o' mine. I want to
know what skeared her? If it was her as set for the pictur,
she'd never 'a' had the fit if she hadn't 'a' bin skeared. I
s'pose Mr. Wilderspin didn't go an' say the word 'feyther'
to her? I s'pose he didn't go an' ax her who her feyther
was ?"

I heard Wilderspin's voice say, "No, indeed. / would
never have asked who her father was. Ah, Mr. Cyril, I
knew how mysteriously she had come to me ; why should I
ask who was her father? Her earthly parentage was all
an illusion. But you will remember that I was not in the
studio at the time of the fit. Mr. Ebury had called about
a commission, and I had gone into the next room to speak
to him. You came into the studio at the time, Mr. Cyril.
When I returned, I found her in the fit, and you standing
over her."

"No, don't get up, Sinfi, my girl," I heard Cyril say. "Sit
down quietly, and I will tell you what passed. There is no
doubt I did ask her about her father, poor thing; but I
did it with the best intentions — did it for her good, as I
thought — did it to learn whether she had been kidnapped,
and certainly not from idle curiosity."

"Scepticism, the curse of the age," said Wilderspin.

I heard Cyril say, "Who could have thought it would
turn out so? But you yourself had told me, Wilderspin,
of Mother Gudgeon's injunction not to ask the girl who
her father was, and of course it had upon me the opposite

,1!

)',

'>. {

320 Aylwin

effect llic {uiiny liag had intended it to l:^ve upon you.
]t was hard to believe that such a tiovver could iiavc sprung
from such a root. I thought it very likely that the woman
had told you this to prevent your getting at the truth
about their connection ; so I decided to question the model
myself, but determined to wait till you had had a good
number of sittings, lest there should come a quarrel with the
woman."

"Well, an' so you asked her?" said Sinfi.

"I thought the moment had come for me to try to read
the puzzle," said Cyril. "So, on that day when Ebury called
when you, Wilderspin, had left us together, I walked up
to her and said, 'Is your father alive?' "

"Ah !" cried Sinfi, "it was as I thought. It was the word
'feyther' as killed her! An' what'll become o' him?"

"The word 'father' seemed to shoot into her like a bul-
let," said Cyril. "She shrieked 'Father/ and her face
looked "

"No, don't tell me how she looked !" said Sinfi. "Mr.
Wilderspin's pictur' o' the witch and the lady shows how
she looked — whoever she was. But if it was Winnie
Wynne, what'll become o' him ?"

Then I heard Cyril address Wilderspin again. "We had
great difficulty, you remember, Wilderspin, in bringing her
round, and afterwards I took her out of the house, put her
into a cab, and you directed your servant whither to take
her."

"It was scepticism that ruined all," I heard Wilderspin
say.

"And yet," said Sinfi, "the Golden Hand on Snowdon
told as he'd marry Winifred Wynne. Ah! surely the
Swimmin' Rei is in the room ! I thought I heard that choke
come in his throat as comes when he frets about Winnie.
Howsomever, I s'pose it must ha' bin all a fancy o' mine."

"You make me laugh, Sinfi, about this golden hand of
yours that is stronger than the hand of Death," said Cyril ;
"and yet I wish from my heart I could believe it."

"My poor mammy used to say, 'The Gorgios believes
when they ought to disbelieve, and they disbelieve when they
ought to believe, and that gives the Romanies a chance.' "

"Sinfi Lovell," said Wilderspin, "that saying of your
mother's touches at the very root of romantic art."
"Well, if Gorgios don't believe enough, Sinfi, — if there is

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 321

not enough superstition among certain Gorgio acquaint-
ances of mine, it's a pity," said Cyril.

"I don't know what you are a-talkin' about with your
romantic art an' sich Hke, but I do know that nothink can't
go agin the dukkcripen o' the clouds, but if I was on
Snowdon with my crwth I could soon tell for sartin whether
she's alive or dead," said Sinfi.

"And how?" said Cyril.

"How? By playin' on the hills the old Welsh dukkerin
tune* as she was so fond on. If she was dead, she wouldn't
hear it, but if she was alive she would, and her living mullof
'ud come to it," said Sinfi.

"Do you believe that possible?" said Cyril, turning to
Wilderspin.

"My friend," said Wilderspin, "I was at that moment
repeating to myself certain wise and pregnant words quoted
from an Oriental book by the great Philip Aylwin — words
which tell us that he is too bold who dares say what he will
believe, what disbelieve, not knowing in any wise the mind
of God — not knowing in any wise his own heart and what it
shall one day sufifer."

"But," said Sinfi, "about her as sat to Mr. Wilderspin;
did she never talk at all, Mr. Cyril ?"

'Never; but I saw her only three' times," said Cyril.

"Mr. Wilderspin," said Sinfi, "did she never talk . '

"Only once, and that was when the woman addressed
her as Winifred. That name set me thinking about the
famous Welsh saint and those wonderful miracles of hers,
and I muttered 'St. Winifred.' The face of the model
immediately grew bright with a new light, and she spoke
the only words I ever heard her speak."

"You never told me of this," said Cyril.

"She stooped," said Wilderspin, "and went through a
strange kind of movement, as though she were dipping
water from a well, and said, 'Please, St. Winifred, bless the
holy water and make it cure ' "

"Ah, for God's sake stop!" cried Sinfi. "Look! the
Swimmin' Rei ! He's in the room ! There he Stan's, and
he's a-hearin' every word, an' it'll kill him outright !"

I stared at Cyril's picture of Lesena for which Sinfi was
sitting. I heard her say :

*Incantation song.
tWraith or fetch.

322

Aylwin

"There ain't nothink so cruel as seein' him take on like
that," said Sinfi. "I've seed it afore, many's the time, in old
Wales. You'll find her yit. The dukkeripcn says you'll
marry her yit, and you will. She can't be dead when the
sun and the golden clouds say you'll marry her at last. Her
as is dead must ha' been somebody else."

"Sinfi, you know there is no hope."

"It might not ha' bin your Winnie, arter all," said she.
"It might ha' bin some poor innocent as her feyther used
to beat. It's wonderful how cruel Gorgio feythcrs is to
poor born naterals. And she might ha' hecrd in London
about St. Winifred's Well a-curin' people."

"Sinfi," I said, "you know there is no hope. And I have
no friend but you now — I am going back to the Romanies."

"No, no, brother," she said, "never no more."

She put on her shawl. I rose mechanically. When she
bade Cyril and Wilderspin good-bye and passed out of the
studio, I did so too. In the street she stood and looked
wistfully at me, as though she saw me through a mist, and
then bade me good-bye, saying that she must go to Kings-
ton Vale where her people were encamped in a hired field.
We separated, and I wandered I knew not whither.

III.

I FOUND myself inquiring for the New North Cemetery,
and after a time I stood looking through the bars of tall
iron gates at long lines of gravestones and dreary hillocks
before me. Then I went in, walking straight over the grass
towards a grave-digger in the sunshine. He looked at me,
resting his foot on his spade.

"I want to find a grave."

"What part was the party buried in ?"

"The pauper part," I said.

"Oh," said he, losing suddenly his respectful tone. "When
was she buried ? I suppose it was a she by the look o' you."

"When? I don't- know the date."

"Rather a wide order that, but there's the pauper part."
And he pointed to a spot at some little distance, where
there were no gravestones and no shrubs. I walked across
to this Desert of Poverty, which seemed too cheerless for

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 323

a place of rest. I stood and ^azed at the mounds till the
black coffins underneath grew upon my mental vision, and
seemed to press upon my brain. Thoughts I had none,
only a sense of being another person.

The man came slowly towards me, and then looked medi-
tatively into my face. I shall never forget him. A tall,
salfow, emaciated man he was, with cheek-bones high and
sharp as an American Indian's, and straight black hair. He
looked like a wooden image of Alephistopheles, carved with
a jack-knife.

"Who are you?" The words seemed to come, not from
the gravedigger's mouth, but from those piles of lamp-
blacked coffins which were searing my eyes through four
feet of graveyard earth. By the fever-fires in my brain I
seemed to see the very faces of the corpses.

"Who am I?" I said, to myself as I thought, but evi-
dently aloud ; *T am the Fool of Superstition. I am Fenella
Stanley's Fool, and Sinfi Lovell's Fool, and Philip Aylwin's
Fool, who went and averted a curse from one of the heads
resting down here> averted a curse by burying a jewel in a
dead man's tomb."

"Not in this cemetery, so none o' your gammon," said
the gravtdigger who had overheard me. "The on'y people
as is fools enough to bury jewels with dead bodies is the
Gypsies, and they take precious good care, as I know, to
keep it mum zvJicrc they bury 'em. There's bin as much
diggin' for them thousand guineas as was buried with Jerry
Chilcott in Foxleigh parish, where I was born, as would
more nor pay for emptying a gold mine ; but I never heard
o' Christian folk a-buryin' jewels. But who are you ?"

I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and looking round, I
found Sinfi by my side.

"Does he belong to you, my gal?"

"Yis," said Sinfi, with a strange, deep ring in her rich
contralto voice. "Yis. he belong to me now — leastways
he's my pal now — whatever comes on it."

"Then take him away, my wench. What's the matter
with him? The old complaint. I s'pose." he added, lifting
his hand to his mouth as though drinking from a glass.

Sinfi gently put out her hand and brushed the man aside.

"Fve bin a-followin' on you all the way, brother," said
.Sinfi, as we moved out of the cemetery, "for your looks
skeared me a bit. Let's go away from this place."

I Hll

ht.

'■,

324

Aylwin

"But whither, Sinfi ? I have no friend but you ; I have no
home."

"No home, brother? The Ivaircngros* has p^ot about
evcrythink, 'cept the sky an' the wind, an' you're one o' the
the richest kairengros on 'em all — leastways so I wur told
t'other day in Kingston Vale. It's the Romanies, brother,
as ain't got no home, 'cept the sky an' the wind. How-
sumever, that's nuther here nor there; we'll jist go to the
woman they told me on, an' if there's any truth to be torn
out on her, out it'll ha' to come, if I ha' to tear out her
windpipe with it."

We took a cab and were soon in Primrose Court.

The front door was wide open — fastened back. Entering
the narrow common passage, we rapped at a dingy inner
door. It was opened by a pretty girl, whose thick chestnut
hair and eyes to match contrasted richly with the dress she
wore — a dirty black dress, with great patches of lining
bursting through holes like a whity-brown froth.

"Meg Gudgeon?" said the girl in answer to our inquiries ;
and at first she looked at us rather suspiciously, "upstairs,
she's very bad — like to die — I'm a-seein' arter 'er. T Uer
let *er alone ; she bites when she's in 'er tantrums."

"We's friends o' hern," said Sinfi, whose appearan*^^ and
decisive voice seemed to reassure the girl.

"Oh, if you're friends that's different," said she. "Meg's
gone off 'er 'ead ; thinks the p'leace in plain clothes are after
'er."

We went up the stairs. The girl followed us. When we
reached a low door, Sinfi proposed that she should remain
outside on the landing, but within ear-shot, as "the sight o'
both on us, all of a suddent, might make the poor body
all of a dither if she was very ill."

The girl then opened the door and went in. I heard the
woman's voice say in answer to her :

"Friend? Who is it? Are you sure. Poll, it ain't a
copper in plain clothes come about that gal?"

The girl came out, and signalling me to enter, went leis-
urely down-stairs. Leaving Sinfi outside on the landing, I
entered the room. There, on a sort of truckle-bed in one
corner, I saw the woman. She slowly raised herself up on
her elbows to stare at me. I took for granted that she
would recognise me at once; but either because she was

*The roof-dwellers.

Ill

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 325

in drink when I saw her last, or because she had got the
idea of a policeman in plain clothes, she did not seem to
know me. Then a look of dire alarm broke over her face
and she said :

"P'leaceman, I'm as hinicent about that air gal as a new-
born babe."

**Mrs. Gudgeon," I said, "I only want you to tell a friend
of mine about your daughter."

"Oh, yis ! a friend o' yourn ! Another or two on ye in
plain clothes behind the door, I dessay. An' pray who said
the gal wur my darter? What for do you want to put words
into the mouth of a hinicent dyin' woman ? I comed by 'er
'onest enough. The pore half-starved thing came up to
me in Llanbeblig churchyard."

"Llanbeblig churchyard ?" I exclaimed, drawing close up
to the bed. "How came you in Llanbeblig churchyard?"
But then I remembered that, according to her own story,
she had married a Welshman.

**How did I come in Llunbeblig churchyard?" said the
woman in a tone in which irony and fear were strangely
mingled. "Well, p'leaceman, I don't mean to be sarcy ; but
seein' as all my pore dear 'usband's kith and kin o' the
name of Goodjohn was buried in Llanbeblig churchyard,
p'raps you'll be kind enough to let me go there sometimes,
an' p'raps be buried there when my time comes."

"But what took you there?" I said.

"What took me to Llanbeblig churchyard?" exclaimed
the woman, whose natural dogged courage seemed to be
returning to her. "What made me leave every fardin' I
had in the world with Poll Onion, when we ommust wanted
bread, an' go to Carnarvon on Shanks's pony ? I sha'n't tell
ye. I comed by the gal 'onest enough, an' she ne^^er comed
to no 'arm through me, less mendin' 'er does for 'er, and
bringin' 'er to London, and bein' a mother to her, an' givin'
'er a few baskets an' matches to sell is a-doin' 'er any 'arm.
An' as to beggin' she would beg, she loved to beg an' say
texes."

"Old kidnapper!" I cried, maddened by the visions that
came upon me. "How do I know that she came to no harm
with a wretch like you ?"

The woman shrank back upon the pillows in a revival of
her terror. "She never comed to no harm, p'leaceman. No,
no, she never comed to no harm through me. I'd a darter

I :■

Ml.
J' 1

%■■■:

'26

Aylwin

once o' my own, Jenny Gudgeon by name — p'raps you
know'd 'er, most o' the coppers did — as was brought up by
my sister by marriage at Carnarvon, an' I sent for 'er to
London, I did, p'leaceman — God forgi'e me — and she went
wrong all through me bein' a drinkin' woman and not
seein' arter 'er, just as my son Bob tookt to drink, through
me bein' a drinkin' woman an' not seein' arter him. She
tookt and went from bad to wuss, bad to wuss ; it's my beHef
as it's alias starvation as drives 'em to it; an' when she wur
a-dyin' gal, she sez to me, 'Mother,' sez she, 'I've got the
smell o' Welsh vi'lets on me ag'in: I wants to be buried
in Llanbeblig churchyard, among the Welsh child'n an'
maids, mother. I wants to feel the snowdrops, an' smell the
vi'lets, an' the primroses, a-growin' over my *ead,' sez she;
'but that can't never be, mother,' sez she, a-sobbin' fit to
bust ; 'never, never, for such as me,' sez she. An' I know'd
what she ment, though she never once blamed me, an' 'er
words stuck in my gizzard like a thorn, p'leaceman,"

"But what has all this to do with the girl you kidnapped ?"
"Ain't I a-tellin' on ye as fast as I can? When my pore
gal dropped off to sleep, I sez to Polly Onion, 'Poll,' I sez,
'to-morrow mornin' I'll pop everythink as ain't popped
a'ready, and I'll leave you the money to see arter 'er, and
I'll start for Carnarvon on Shanks's pony. I knows a good
many on the roads,' sez I, 'as won't let Jokin' Meg want
for a crust and a sup, and when I gits to Carnarvon I'll ax
'er aunt to bury 'er (she sells fish, 'er aunt does,' sez I,
'and she's got a pot o' money), an' then I'll see the parson
or the sexton or somebody,' sez I, 'an' I'll tell 'em I've got
a darter in London as is goin' to die, a Carnarvon gal by
family, an' I'll tell 'im she ain't never bin married, an' then
they'll bury 'er where she can smell the primroses and the
vi'lets.' That's what I sez to Poll Onion, an' then Poll
she begins to pipe, an' sez, 'Oh Meg, Meg, ain't I a Carnar-
von gal too? The likes o' us ain't a-goin' to grow no
vi'lets an' snowdrops in Llanbeblig churchyard.' An' I sez
to her, 'What a d — d fool you are, Poll ! You never 'adn't
a gal as went wrong through you a-drinkin', else you'd
never say that. If the parson sez to me, "Is your darter a
vargin-maid?" d'ye think I shall say, "Oh no, parson"? I'll
swear she is a vargin-maid on all the Bibles in all the
cliurclies in Wales.' That's jis' what I sez to Polly Onion,
God forgi'e mo. ^\n' Poll sez, * Tlie [)arson'll bo sure to send

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 327

you to hell, Meg, if you do that air.' An' I sez, *So he may,
then, but I shall do it, no fear.' That's what I sez to Poll
Onion (she's downstairs at this wcrry moment a warmin'
me a drop o' beer) ; it was 'er as showed you upstairs, cuss
'er for a fool ; an' she can tell you the .same thing as I'm
a-tellin' on you."

"But what about her you kidnapped? Tell me all about
it, or it will be worse for ycu."

"Ain't I a-tellin' you as fast as I can? Off to Carnarvon
I goes, an' every futt o' the way I walks — Lor' bless your
soul, there worn't a better pair o' pins nowheres than Meg
Gudgeon's then, afore the water got in 'em and ]>ust 'em ;
and I got to Llanbeblig churchyard early one mornin', an'
there I seed the poor half-sharp gal. So you see I comed
by her 'onest enough, p'leaceman, though she worn't
ezzackly my own darter."

"Well, well," I said ; "go on."

"Yes, it's all very well to say 'go on,' p'leaceman ; but if
you'd got as much water in your legs as I've got in mine,
an' if you'd got no more wind in your bellows than I've
got in mine, you'd find it none so easy to go on."

"What was she doing in the churchyard?"

"Well, p'leaceman, I'm tellin' you the truth, s'elp me
Bob ! I was a-lookin' over the graves to see if I could find
a nice comfortable place for my pore gal, an' all at once I
heered a kind o' sobbin' as would a' made me die o' fright
if it 'adn't a' bin broad daylight, an' then I see a gal a-layin'
flat on a grave an' cryin', an' when I got up to her I seed
as she wur covered with nuid, an' I seed as she wur
a-starvin'."

"Good God, woman, you arc lying! you are lying!"

"No, I ain't a-lyin'. She tookt to me the moment she
clapped eyes on me; most people does, and them as don't
ought, an' she got up an' put her arms round my neck, and
she called me 'Knocker.' "

"Called you what?"

"Ain't I a-tellin' you? She called nie 'Knocker'; and
that's the very name as she alius called me up to the day of
her death, pore dear ! T tried to make 'er come along o' me,
an' she wouldn't stir, :in' so I left 'er, nieanin' to go back ;
but when I got to my sIsUt's by marriage, there was a
letter for me and it wur from Polly Onion, a-sayin' as my
pore Jenny died the same day as I left Lf)nd(jn, a-sayin',

; '!'■•

328

Aylwin

'Mother, vi'lets, vi'lcts; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!' an' was
buried by the parish. An' that upset me, p'leaceman, an'
made me swoownd, n' when I corned to, I couldn't hear
nothink only my pore Jenny's voice a-sobbin' on the wind,
'Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets!' an. that sent
me off my 'ead a bit, and I ran out o' the house, an'
there was Jenny's voice a-goin' on before me a-sobbin',
'Mother, vi'lets, vi'lets; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets !' an' it seemed
to lead me back to the churchyard ; an' lo ! and be'old, there
was the pore half-starved creatur' a-settin' there jist as I'd
left 'er, an' I sez, 'God bless you, my gal, you're a-starvin' 1'
an' she jumped up, an' she corned an' throwed 'er arms
round my waist, an' there we stood both on us a-cryin' to-
gither, an' then I runned back into Carnarvon, an' fetched
'er some grub, an' she tucked into the grub. — But hullo!
p'leaceman, what's up now? What the devil are you
a-squeedgin' my 'and like that for ? Are you a-goin' to kiss
it? It ain't none so clean, p'leaceman. You're the rummest
copper in plain clothes ever I seed in all my born days.
Fust 3^ou seem as if you want to bite me, 3'^ou looks so
savage, an' then you looks as if you wants to kiss me ; you'll
make me laugh, I know you will, an' that'll make me cough.
— Ki ! Poll Onion, come 'ere. Bring my best lookin'-glass
out o' my boudore, an' let me look at my old chops, for
I'm blowed if there ain't a copper in plain clothes this time
as is fell 'ead over ears in love with me, jist as the young
swell did at the studero."

"Go on, Mrs. Gudgeon," I said; "go on. She ate the
food ?"

"Oh, didn't she jist ! And the pore half-sharp thing took
to me, an' I took to she, an' I thinks to myself, 'She's a
purty gal, if she's ever so stupid, an' she'll get 'er livin'
a-sellin' flowers o' fine days, and a-doin' the rainy-night
dodge with baskets when it's wet' ; and so I took 'er in, an'
in the street she'd all of a suddent bust out a-singin' songs
about Snowdon an' sich like, just as if she was a-singin'
in a dream, and folk used to like to hear her an' gev her
money ; an' I was a good mother to 'er, I was, an' them as
sez I worn't is cussed liars."

"And she never came to any harm?" I .said, holding the
great muscular hands between my two palms, unwilling to
let them go. "She never came to any harm ?"

"Ain't I said so more nor wunst? I swore un the Bible

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 329

— there's the very Bible, under the match-box, agin the
winder — on that very Bible I swore as my pore Jenny
brought from Wales, and as I've never popped yit — that
this pore half-sharp gal should never go wrong through
me; an' then, arter I swore that, my poor Jenny let me
alone, an' I never 'eard 'er v'ice no more a-cryin', 'Mother,
vi'lets, vi'lets ; mother, vi'lets, vi'lets !' An' many's the chap
as 'as come leerin' arter 'er as I've sent away with a flea
in 'is ear. Cuss 'em all; they's all bad alike about purty
gals, men is. She's never corned to no wrong through mc.
Didn't I ammost kill a real sailor capting when I used to
live in the East End 'cause he tried to meddle with 'er?
And worn't that the reason why I left my 'um close to
Radcliffe Highway and comed here? Them as killed 'er
wur the cussed lot in the studeros. I'm a dyin' woman ; I'm
as hinicent as a new-born babe. An' there ain't nothink
o' 'ern in this room on'y a pair o' ole shoes an' a few rags
in that ole trunk under the winder."

I went to the trunk and raised the lid. The tattered,
stained remains of the very dress she wore when I last saw
her in the mist on Snowdon! But what else? Pushed
into an old worn shoe, which with its fellow lay tossed
among the ragged clothes, was a brown stained letter. I
took \t out. It was addressed to "Miss Winifred Wynne at
Mrs. Davies's." Part of the envelope was torn away. It
bore the Graylingham post-mark, and its superscription
was in a hand which I did not recognise, and yet it was a
hand which seemed half-familiar to me. I opened it; I
read a line or two before I fully realised what it was — the
letter, full of childish prattle, which I had written to Wini-
fred when I was a little boy — the letter which her aunt
had forbidden her to answer.

I-

" I

I forgot where I was, I forgot that Sinfi was standing
outside the door, till I heard the woman's voice exclaim-
ing : "What do you want to set on my bed an' look at me
like that for? — you ain't no p'leaceman in plain clothes, so
none o* your larks. Git off o' my bed, will ye ? You'll be
a-settin' on my bad leg an' a-bustin' on it in a minit. Git
ofif my bed, else look another way; them eyes o' yourn
skear me."

I was sitting on the side of her bed and looking into her
face. "Where did you get this?" I said, holding outthe letter.

iil!> .i'*:'^!^ .V

;,:, I

330 Aylwin

"You skcars 111c, a-lookin' like that," said slic. "I coined
\ry it 'oncst. One day when she was asleep, I was tiirnin'
over her clothes to see how much longer they would hold
together, when I feels a somethink 'ard sewed up in the
breast ; I rips it open, and it was that letter. I didn't put it
back in the frock ag'in, 'cause I thought it might be useful
some day in findin' out who she was. She never missed it.
I don't think she'd 'ave missed anvthink, she wur so on-
common silly. You ain't a-goin' to pocket it, air you ?"

I had put the letter in my pocket, and had seized the
shoes and was going out of the room ; but I stopped, took
a sovereign from my purse, placed it in an envelope bearing
my own address which I chanced to find in my pocket, and,
putting it into her hand, I said, "Here is my address and
here is a sovereign. I will tell your friend below to come
for me or send whenever you need assistance." The woman
clutched at the money with greed, and I left the room,
signalling to Sinfi (who stood on the landing, pale and
deeply moved) to follow me downstairs. When we reached
the wretched room on the ground-floor we found the girl
hanging some wet rags on lines that were stretched from
wall to wall.

"What is your name ?'' I said.

"Polly Unwin," replied she, turning round wnth a piece
of damp linen in her hand.

"And what are you ?"

"What am I?"

"I mean what do you do for a living?"

"What do I do for a living?" she said. "All kinds of
things — help the men at the barrows in the New Cut, sell
flowers, do anything that comes in my way.'

"Never mind what she does for a livin', brother," said
Sinfi ; "give her a gold balanser or two, and tell her to see
arter the woman."

"Here is some money," I said to the girl. "See that Mrs.
Gudgeon up-stairs w^ants for nothing. Is that story of hers
true about her daughter and Llanbeblig churchyard?"

"That's true enough, though she's a wunner at a lie ;
that's true enough."

But as I spoke I heard a noise like the laugh or the shriek
of a maniac. It seemed to come from upstairs.

"She's a-larfin' ag'in," said the girl. "It's a very wicked
larf, sir, ain't it ? But there's wuss 'uns nor Meg Gudgeon

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 331

for all 'cr wicked larf, as I knows. Many a time she's ktp'
me from starvin'. I miis' run up an' sec 'er. She'll kill her-
self a-larfin' vit."

The girl hurried up-stairs and I followed her, leavinp^
Sinfi below. I re-entered the bed-room. There was the
woman, her face buried in the pillow, rocking and rolling
her body half round with the regularity of a pendulum.
Between the peals of half-smothered hysterical laughter that
came from her, I could hear her say :

"'Dear Lord Jesus, dont forget to love dear Henry ivho cant
git up the gangways zvifhoiit mc."

The words seemed to fall upon my heart like a rain of
molten metal dropping from the merciless and mocking
skies. But I had ceased to wonder at the cruelty of Fate.
The girl went to her and shook her angrily. This seemed
to allay her hysterics, for she rolled round upon her back
and stared at us. Then she looked at the envelope clutched
in hei hand, and read out the address,

"Henry, Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer! An' I tookt
'im for a copper in plain clothes all the while ! Henry,
Henry, Henry Halywin, Eskeuer! I shall die a-larfin', I
know I shall! I shall die a-larfin', I know I shall! Poll!
don't you mind me a-tellin' you about my pore darter
Winifred — for my darter she zvas, as I'll swear afore all the
beaks in London — don't you mind me a-sayin' that if she
wouldn't talk when she w'ur awake, she could mag away
fast enough when she wur asleep ; an' it were alius the same
mag about dear little Henry, an' dear Henry Halywin as
couldn't git up the gangways without 'er. Well, pore dear
Henry was 'er sweet 'airt, an' this is the chap, an' if my
eyes ain't stun blind, the werry chap out o' the cussed stu-
deros as killed 'er, pore dear, an' as is a-skearin' me away
from my beautiful 'um in Primrose Court; an' 'ere wur
I a-talkin' to him all of a muck sweat, thinking he wur a
copper in plain clothes !"

At this moment Sinfi entered the room. She came up to
me, and laying her hand upon my shoulder she said : "Come
away, brother, this is cruel hard for you to bear. It's our
poor sister Winifred as is dead, and it ain't nobody else."

The effect of Sinfi's appearance and of her words upon the
woman was like that of an electric shock. She sat up in
her bed open-mouthed, staring from Sinfi to me, and from
me to Sinfi.

.11

332 Aylwin

"So my darter Winifred's your sister now, is she?" (turn-
ing to me). "A few minutes ago she was your sweet 'airt :
and now she seems to ha' bin your sister. And she was
your sister, too, was she?" (turning to Sinfi). "Well, all 1
know is, that she was my darter, Winifred Gudgeon, as is
dead, and buried in the New North Cemetery, pore dear;
and yet she was sister to both on ye !"

She then buried her face again in the pillows and re-
sumed the rocking movement, shrieking between her peals
of laughter: "Well, if I'm the mother of a six-fut Gypsy
gal and a black-eyed chap as seems jest atween a Gypsy and
a Christian, 1 never knowed tJiat afore. No, I never knowed
tJmt afore ! I alius said I should die a-larfin', and so I shall ;
I'm a-dyin' now — ha I ha! ha!"

She fell back upon the pillow, exhausted by her own
cruel merriment.

"She always said she d die a-larfin', an' she will, too —
more nor I shall ^vcr do," said the girl.

"Did you notice what she said about Winnie a-callin' her
Knocker ?" said Sinfi.

"Yes, and couldn't understand it."

"/ know what it meant. Winnie knowed all about the
Knockers oi Snowdon, the dwarfs o' the copper mine, and
this woman, bein' so thick and short, must look ezackly
like a Knocker, I should say, if you could see one."

I said to the girl, "Was she really kind to — to "

"To her you were asking about, — the Essex Street
Beauty? I should think she just was. She's a drinker, is
poor Meg, and drinking in Primrose Court means starva-
tion. Meg and the Beauty were often short enough of
grub, but, drunk or sober, Meg would never t uch a
mouthful till the Beauty had had her fill. I noticed it many
a time — not a mouthful. When Meg was obliged to send
her into the streets to sell things she was always afraid
that the Beauty might come to harm through the tofifs and
the chaps. The toffs were the worst looking after her — as
they mostly are — so I was always watching her in the day-
time, and at night Meg was always watching her, and that
was what made me know your face, as soon as ever I clapt
eyes on it."

"Why, what do you mean?'*

"Well, one rainy night when I was standing by the thea-
tre door, I heard a toflf ask a policeman about the Essex

as IS

Street
i<er, is
starva-
gh of
ucli a
many
I send
afraid
fifs and
ler — as
le day-
id that
clapt

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 333

Street Beauty, and I thought I knew what that meant
very well. So I ran oflf to find Meg. I had seen her watch-
ing the Beauty all the time. But lo and behold ! Meg was
gone and the Beauty, too. So I run across here, and found
Meg and the Beauty getting their supper as quiet as possi-
ble. Meg had heard the toflf talking to the policeman —
though I didn't know she was standing so near — and
whisked her oflf and away as quick as lightning."

"That was I," I said. "God 1 God ! If I had only known !"

"There's the same look now on your face as there was
then, and I should know it among ten thousand."

"Polly Onion," I said, "there is my address, and if ever
you want a friend, and if you are in trouble, you will know
where to find assistance," and I gave her another sovereign.

"You're a good sort," said she, "and no mistake."

"Good-bye," I said, shaking her hand. "See well after
Mrs. Gudgeon."

"All right," said she, and a smile broke over her face. "I
think I ought to tell you now," she continued, "that Meg's
no more ill of dropsy than I am; she could walk twenty
miles oflf the reel ; there ain't a bullock in England half as
strong as Meg ; she's shamming."

"Shamming, but why?"

"Well, she ain't drunk ; ever since the Beauty died she's
never touched a drop o' gin. But she's turned quite cranky.
She's got it into her head that the relations of the Beauty
are going to send her to prison for kidnapping; and she
thinks that every one that comes near her is a policeman in
plain clothes. She's just lying in bed to keep herself out
of the way till she starts."

"Where's she going, then ?"

"She talks about going to see after her son Bob in the
country; her husband is a Welshman. He's over the
water."

"Did you say she had given up drinking?" I asked.

"Yes ; she seemed to dote on the Beauty, and when the
Beauty died she said, 'My darter went wrong through me
drinkin', and my son Bob went wrong through me drink-
in*; and I feel somehow that it wos through my drinkin'
that I lost the Beauty; and never will you find me touch
another drop o' gin, Poll. Beer I ain't fond on, and it 'ud
take a rare swill o' beer to get up as far as Meg Gudgeon's
head.' "

334 Aylwin

"There ain't much fault to be found with a woman like
Meg Gudgeon," said Sinfi. "Was the Beauty fond o' her?
She ought to ha bin."

"She used to call her Knocker," said the girl. "She
seemed very fond of her when they were together, but
seemed to forget her as soon as they were apart."

Sinfi and I then left the house.

In Great Queen Street she took my hand as if to bid
me good-bye. But she stood and gazed at me wistfully,
and I gazed at her. At last she said :

"An' now, brother, we'll jist go across to Kingston Vale,
an' see my daddy, an' set your livin'-waggin to rights."

"Then, Sinfi," said I, "you and I are one more "

I stopped and looked at her. The fearless young Ama-
zon and seeress, who kept a large family of Kaulo Camloes
in awe, was supposed to have conquered the feminine weak-
ness of t'^ars ; but she had not. There was a chink in the
Amazon's armour, and I had found it.

"Yis," said she, nodding her head and smiling. "You
an' me's right pals ag'in."

As we were going I told her how I had replaced the jewel
in the tomb.

"I know'd you would do it. Yis, I heerd you telling the
gravedigger the same thing."

"And yet," said I, bitterly, "in spite of that and in spite of
the Golden Hand, she ij dead."

Sinfi stood silently looking at me now. Even her pro-
digious faith seemed conquered.

;. l t

IV.

For a few days I paced with Sinfi over Wimbledon Com-
mon and Richmond Park. The weather was now unusually
brilliant for the time of year. Sinfi would walk silently by
my side.

But I could not rest with the Gypsies. I must be alone.
Soon I left the camp and returned to London, where I took
a suite of rooms in a house not far from Eaton Square —
though to me London was a huge meaningless maze of
houses clustered around Primrose Court — that horrid.

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 335

fascinating-, intolerable core of pain. Into my lungs poured
the hateful atmosphere of the city where Winifred had per-
ished ; poured hot and stilling as sand-blasts of the desert.
Impossible to stay there! — for the pavement seemed
actually to scorch my feet, like the floor of a fiery furnace.
To me the sun above was but the hideous eye of Circum-
stance which had stared down pitilessly on that bare head
of hers, and blistered those feet.

The lamps at night seemed twinkling, blinking in a cal-
lous consciousness of my tragedy — my monstrous tragedy
of real life, the like of which no poet dare imagine. But
what aroused my wrath to an unbearable pitch — what de-
termined me to leave London at once — was the sight of
the unsympathetic faces in the streets. Though sympathy
could have given me no comfort, the myriad unsympa-
thetic eyes of London infuriated me.

"Died in beggar's rags — died in a hovel!" I muttered
with rage as the equipages and coarse splendours of the
West End rolled insolently by. "Died in a hovel! — and
this London, this vast, ridiculous, swarming human ant
hi'!, whose millions of paltry humdrum lives were not worth
one breath from those lips — this London spurned her, left
her to perish alone in her squalor and misery."

Cyri and Wilderspin had returned to ihe Continent.
D'Arcy was still away.

I made application to the Home Secretary to have the
pauper grave opened. On the ground that I was "not a
relative of the deceased," the officials refused to institute
even preliminary inquiries.

During this time no news of Mrs. Gudgeon had come to
me through Polly Onion, and I determined to go to Prim-
rose Court and see what had become of her.

When I reached Primrose Court I found that the shutters
of the house were up. Knocking and getting no response,
I ascertained from a pot-boy who was passing the corner
of the court that Mrs. Gudgeon had decamped. Neither
the pot-boy nor any one in the court could tell me whither
she was gone.

"But where is Polly Onion?" I asked anxiously; for I
was beginning to blame myself bitterly for having neglected
them.

(■
4

li !'

33^

Aylwin

•M

"I can tell you -./here poor Polly is," said the pot-boy.
"She's in the New North Cemetery. She fell down stairs
and broke her neck."

"Why, she lived down-stairs," I said.

"That's true; you seem to be well up in the family, sir.
But Poll couldn't pay her rent, so old Meg took her in.
And on the vcr> morning when Meg and Poll were
a-startin' off together into the country — it was quite early
and dark — Poll stumbles over three young flower gals as
'ad crcp' in the front door in the night time and was makin'
the stairs their bed. Gals as hadn't made enough to pay for
their night's lodging often used to sleep on Meg's stairs.
Poll was picked up as nigh dead as a toucher, and she died
at the 'ospital."

Toiling in the revolving cage of Circumstance, I strove
in vain against that most appalling form of envy — the envy
of one's fellow-creatures that they should live and breathe
while there is no breath of life for the one.

My uncle Cecil's death had made me a rich man ; but
what was wealth to me if it could not buy me respite from
the vision haunting me day and night — the vision of the
attic, the mattress, and the woman ?

And as I thought of the powerlessness of wealth to give
me one crumb of comfort, and remembered Winnie's ser-
mon about wealth, I v/ould look at myself in the mirror
above my mantelpiece and smile bitterly at the sight of the
hollow cheeks, furrowed biOw, and melancholy eyes, and
recall her words about her hovering near me after she
was dead.

The thought of my wealth and the squalor in which she
had died was, I think, the most maddening thought of all.
I had now become possessor of Wilderspin's picture. Faith
and Love, having bought it of the Broad Street dealer to
whom it belonged ; and also of the Christabel picture, and
these I was constantly looking at as they hung up on the
walls of my room. After a while, however, I destroyed
the Christabel picture, it was too painful. Though I would
not see such friends as I had, I read their letters; indeed,
it was these same letters which alone could draw from me
a grim smile now and then.

Almost every letter ended by urging me, in order to flee
from my sorrows, to travel ! With the typical John Bull

i !

t-boy.
stairs

ly, sir.
ler in.
were
2 early
jals as
makin'
pay for
stairs,
[le died

strove
le envy
breathe

in; but

te from

of the

to give

e's ser-

mirror

of the

es. and

er she

ich she
t of all.
e, Faith
ealer to
ire, and
on the
stroyed
[ would
indeed,
irom nie

to flee
hn Bull

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 337

travelling seems to be always the panacea. In sorrow,
John's herald of peace is Baedeker • the dispenser of John's
true nepenthe is Mr. Murray. Pit and love for Winifred
pursued me, tortured me nigh unto death, and therefore
did these friends of mine seem to suppose that I wanted to
flee from my pity and sorrow ! Why, to flee from my sor-
row, to get free of my pity, to flee from the agonies that
went ni^h to tearing soul from body, would have been to
flee from all that I had left of life — memory.

Did I want to flee from Winnie? Why, memory was
Winnie now ; and did I want to flee from her ? And yet it
was memory that was goading me on to the verge of mad-
ness. No doubt the reader thinks me a weak creature for
allowing the passion of pity to sap my manhood in this
fashion. But il was not so much her death as the manner
of her death that withered my heart and darkened my soul.
The calamities which fell upon her, grievous beyond meas-
ure, unparalleled, not to be thought of save with a pallor
of cheek and a shudder of the flesh, were ever before me,
mocking me — maddening me.

"Died in a hovel !" As I gave voice to this impeachment
of Heaven, night after night, wandering up and down the
streets, my brain was being scorched and withered by those
same thoughts of anger against destiny and most awful
revolt which had appnlled me when first I saw how the
curse of Heaven or the whim of Circumstance had been
fulfilled.

Then came that passionate yearning for death, which
grief such as mine must needs bring. But if what Mate-
rialism teaches were true, suicide would rob me ev^en of my
memory of her. If, on the other hand, what I had been
taught by the supernaturalism of my ancestors were true,
to commit suicide might be but to play finally into the
hands of that same unknown pitiless power with whom
my love had all along been striving.

"Suicide might sever my soul from hers for ever," I
said, and then the tragedy would seem too monstrously
unjust to be true, and I said : "It cannot be — such things
cannot be ; it is a hideous dream. She is not dead ! She is
in Wales with friends at Carnarvon, and I shall awake and
laugh at all this imaginary woe !'

And what were now my feelings towards the memory of
my father? Can a man cherish in his heart at one and the

1 ,i;,;

n ■ !

338

Aylwin

«ame moment scorn of another man for believing in the
efficacy of a curse, and bitter anger against him for having
left a curse behind him? He can! On my return to
London after my ilhiess I had sent back to Wihlorspin the
copy of The Veiled Queen he had lent me. But from the
Hbrary of Raxton Hall I brought my father's own copy,
elaborately bound in the tooled black calf my father
affected. The very sight of that black binding now irritated
me; never did I pass it without experiencing a sensation
that seemed a blending of scorn and fear: scorn of the
ancestral superstitions the book gave voice to: fear of
them.

One day I took the book from the shelves and then
hurled it across the room. Stumbling over it some days
after this, a spasm of ungovernable rage came upon me,
for terribly was my blood struggling with Fenella Stanley
and Philip Aylwin, and thousands of ancestors, Romany
and Gorgio, who for ages upon ages had been shaping my
destiny. I began to tear out the leaves and throw them
on the fire. But suddenly I perceived the leaves to be
covered with marginalia in my father's manuscript, and
with references to Fenella Stanley's letters — letters which
m}' father seemed to have studied as deeply as though
they were the writings of a great philosopher instead of
the scribblings of an ignorant Gypsy. My eye had caught
certain written words which caused me to clutch at the
sheets still burning on i'le fire. Too late! — I grasped
nothing save a little paper-ash. Then I turned to the
pages still left in my hand, and read these words of my
father's :

"These marginalia are written for the eyes of my dear son, into
whose hands this copy of my book will come. Until he gave me
his promise to bury the amulet with me, I felt alone in the world.
But even he failed to understand what he called my 'superstition.'
He did not know that by perpetually feeling on my bosom the
facets of the beloved jewel which had long lain warm upon hers —
the cross which had received the last kis^ from her lips — 1 had been
able to focus all the scattered rays of thought — I had been able to
vitalize memory till it became an actual presence. He did not
know that out of my sorrow had been born at last a strange kind
of happiness — the happiness that springs from loving a memory —
living with a memory till it becomes a presence — an objective
reality. He did not know that, by holding her continually in my
thoughts, by means of the amulet, I achieved at last the miracle
described by the Hindoo poets — the miracle of reshaping from the

^1,

-'.'■: n,-^V.<l.r9:t'-ivm

in the
having
uni to
pin the
om the
1 copy,

father
rritated
nsation

of the
fear of

id then
ne days
)on me,
Stanley
?lomany
)ing my
w them
s to be
ipt, and
s which
though
stead of
I caught
1 at the
grasped
. to the
of my

son, into

gave me
he world,
lerstition.'
osom the
en hers —

had been
in able to
did not
ange kind
memory —

objective
illy in my
le miracle

from the

And
poor
from

upon

The Revolving Cage of Circumstance 339

undulations of 'the three regions of the universe the remembered
object by the all-creative magic of love!' "

Then followed some translations from tlic Kuniarasamb-
hava and other Sanscrit poems, and then the well-known
passage in Lucretius about dreams, and then a pathetic
account of the visions called up within him by the sensa-
tion caused by the lacerations of the facets of the cherished
amulet upon his bosom — visions something akin, as I
imagine, to those experienced by convulsionnaircs.
then after all this learning came references to
ignorant Fenella Stanley's letters and extracts
them.

In one of these extracts I was startled to come
the now familiar word crwth.

"De Welch fok ses as de livin' mullos only follow the crwth on
Snowden wen it is playde by a Welch Chavi, but dat is all a lie.
Dey follows the crwth when a Romany Chi plays it, as I nos very
wel, but He Chavi wot play on the crwth, shee must love the living
mullo she want for to come, and de living mullo must love her."

And then followed my father's comments on the ex-
tract.

"N. B. — To see and hear a crwth, if possible, and ascertain the
trtie nature of the vibrations. But there are said to be only a few
ci ,vths in existence; and very likely there is no musician who can
phiy upon them."

Then followed a few sentences written at a later date.

'The crwth is now becoming obsolete; on inquiry I learn that it
is a stringed instrument played with a bow like a violin; but as one
of the feet of the bridge passes through one of the sound-holes
and rests on the inside of the back, the vibrations must be quite
unique, if we remember how important a part is played by the back
in all instruments of the violin kind. It must be far more subtle
than the vibrations of the Welsh harp, and even more subtle (if
also more nasal) than those of the violin.

"The reason why music has in all ages been called in to aid in
evoking the spirits, the reason why it is as potent now as ever it
was in aiding the spirits to manifest themselves, is simple enough:
the rhythmic vibrations of music set in active motion the magnetic
waves through whose means alone the two worlds, spiritual and
material, can hold communication. The quality and the value of
these vibrations depends mainly, no doubt, upon the magnetic
power, conscious or other, of the musician, but partly also upon the
kind of instrument used. The vibrations awakened by stringed in-
struments have been long known to be more subtle than any
others; instruments of the violin kind are of course the most subtle
of all. Doubtless this is why among the Welsh hills the old say-
ing used to be, 'The spirits follow the crwth.' "

lit

1^1

!:;..■

! •

■\ \\<

■ '

340

Ay 1 win

"Which folly is the more besotted," I said as I read and
re-read the marginalia — "that of the scholar with his scien-
tific nonsense about vibrations, or that of the ignorant
rij^iy with her livin' mullos drawn through the air by
ir.usic and love?"

But from this moment my mind began to run upon the
picture of Fenclla Stanley, surrounded by those Snowdon-
ian spirits wiiich her music was supposed to have evoked
from the mountain air of the morning.

•n

ead and

is scien-

gnorant

air by

pon the

lowdon-

evoked

XIII.

The Magic of Snowdon

III 11 i

n . 1

""^ir ''^^-^^?'fJJ''FT -«a^r»^-TT'!3™--5^^r¥«?^3J7!»-!^'^«=B''5!!"»K"'"T^''«'Ti'<;M'»a(WJ*ij("jp>^i;g™

XIII.— THE MAGIC OF
SNOWDON

J.,

In a few days I left London and went to North Wales.

Opposite to me in the railway carriage sat an elderly
lady, into whose face I occasionally felt myself to be staring
in an unconscious way. But I was merely communing
with myself; I was saying to myself, "My love of North
Wales, and especially of Snowdon, is certainly very strong ;
but it is easily accounted for — it is a matter of tempera-
ment. Even had Wales not been associated with Winnie,
I still must have dearly loved it. ?vluch has been said
about the effect of scenery upon the minds and tempera-
ment of those who are native to it. But temperament is a
matter of ancestral conditions: the place of one's birth
is an accident. As some, like my cousin Percy, for in-
stance, nre born with a passion for the sea, so some people
are born with a passion for forests, some with a passion
for mountains, a d some with a passion for rolling plains.
The landscape amid which I was born had, no doubt, a
charm for me, and could bring to me that nature-ecstasy
which inherited from Fenella Stanley. But with Wales
I actual ' fell in love the moment I set foot in the country.
This is \vhy I am hurrying there now."

And then I laughed at myself, and evidently frightened
the old lady very much. She did not know that under-
neath the soul's direst struggle — the struggle of personality
with the tyranny of the ancestral blood — there is an awful
sense of humour — a laughter (unconquerable, and yet in-
tolerable) at the deepest of all incongruities, the incon-
gruity of Fate's game with man. I apologised to her, and
told her that I had been absorbed in reading a droll story,

i :

Aylwin

in which a man believed that the Angel of Memory had
re-fashioned for him his dead wife out of his own sorrow
and unquenchable fountain of tears.

What an extraordinary idea!" said the old lady, in the
conciliatory tone she would have adopted towards a mad-
man whom she found alone with her in a railway carriage.
"I mean he was very eccentric, wasn't he?"

Who shall say, madam? 'Bold is the donkey-driver
and bold the ka'dee who dares say what he will believe,
what disbelieve, not knowing in any wise the mind of Allah,
not knowing in any wise his own heart and what it shall
some day suffer.' "

At the next station the old lady left the carriage and
entered another, and I was left alone.

My intention was to take up my residence at the cot-
tage where Winifred had lived with her aunt. Indeed,
for a few days I did this, taking with me one of the Welsh
peasants with whom I had previously made friends. But
of course a lengthened stay in such a house was impossi-
ble. More than ever now I needed attendance, and good
attendance, for I had passed into a strange state of irrita-
bility — I had no commi^nd over my nerves, which were
jarred by the most trifling thing. I went to the hotel at
Pen y Gwryd, but there tourists and visitors made life
more intolerable still to a man in my condition.

At first I thought of building a house as near to the
cottage as possible; but this would take time, and I could
not rest out of Wales. I decided at last to have a wooden
bungalow built. By telling the builders that time was the
first consideration with me, the cost a secondary one, I
got a bungalow built in a few weeks. By the tradesmen
of Chester I got it fitted up and furnished to my taste with
equal rapidity. Attending to this business gave real relief.

When the bungalow was finished I rem'^ved into it the
picture "Faith and Love." I also got in as much painting
material as I might want and began to make sketches in the
neighbourhood.

Time went on, and there I remained. In a great degree,
however, the habit of grieving was conquered by my
application to work. My moroseness of temper gradually
left me.

Beautiful memorif;s began to take the place of hideous
ones — the picture of the mattress and the squalor gave

The Magic of Snowdon

345

ry had
sorrow

in the
I niad-
rriage.

-driver

)eheve,

Allah,

it shall

^e and

le cot-
[ndeed,
Welsh
5. But
npossi-
d good
[ irrita-
h were
lotel at
ide life

to the
could
vooden
vas the
one, I
iesmen
te with
1 relief,
it the
ainting
3 in the

degree,
Dy my
adually

lideous
r gave

place to pictures of Winifred on the sands of Raxton or on
Snowdon. Yet so much of habit is there in grief that even
at this time I was subject to recurrent waves of the old
pain — waves which were sometimes as overmastering as
ever.

I did not neglect the cottage, which was now my prop-
erty, but kept it in exactly the same state as that in which
it had been put by Sinii after Winnie had wandered back to
Wales.

By isolating myself from all society, by surrounding my-
self with mementoes of Winifred, memory really did at
last seem to be working a miracle such as was worked
for the widowed Ja'afar.

Yet not entirely had memory passed into an objective
presence. I seemed to feel Winnie near me; but t.hat was
all. I felt that more necessary than anything else in per-
fecting the atmosphere of memory in which I would live
was the society of her in whom alone I had found sympathy
— Sinfi Lovell. Did I also remember the wild theories of
my father and Fenella Stanley about the crwth? To ob-
tain the company of Sinfi had now become very difficult —
her attitude towards me had so changed. When she al-
lowed me to rejoin the Lovells at Kingston Vale she did
so under the compulsion of my distress. But my leaving
the Gypsies of my own accord left her free from this com-
pulsion. She felt that she had now at last bidden me fare-
well for ever.

Still, opportunities of seeing her occasionally would, I
knew, present themselves, and I now determined to avail
myself of these. Panuel Lovell and some of the Boswells
were not unfrequently in the neighbourhood, and they were
always accompanied by Sinfi and Videy.

- I'* I

II.

On a certain occasion, when I learnt that the Lovells were
in the neighbourhood, I sought them out. Sinfi at first was
extremely shy, or distant, or proud, or scared, and it was
not till after one or two interviews that she relaxed. She
still was overshadowed by some mysterious feeling towards

■

34^

Aylwin

: ;i

iiili-

Ml-

ill-'

me that seemed at one moment anger, at another dread.
However, I succeeded at last. I persuaded Panuel and his
daughters to leave their friends at "the Place," and spend
a few days with me at the bungalow. Great was the gaping
and wide the grinning among the tourists to see me march-
ing along the Capel Curig road with three Gypsies. But
to all human opinion I had ^ecome as indifferent as
Wilderspin himself.

As we walked along the road, Sirli slowly warmed into
her old self, but Videy, as usual, was silent, preoccupied,
and meditative. When we got within sight of the bunga-
low, however, the lights flashing from the windows made
the long low buildmg look very imposing. Pharaoh, the
bantam cock which Sinfi was carrying began to crow, but
silence again fell upon Sinfi.

Panuel, when we entered the bungalow, said he was very
tired and would like to go to bed. I had perceived by
the glossy appearance of his skin (which was of the colour
of beeswaxed mahogany) and the benevolent dimple in his
cheek that, although far from being intoxicated, he was
"market-merry" ; and as the two sisters also seemed tired,
I took the party at once to their bedrooms.

"Dordi ! what a gran' room," said Sinfi in a hushed voice,
as I opened the door of the one allotted to her. "Don't
you mind, Videy, when you an' me fust slep' like two
kairengros ?"*

"No, I don't," said Videy sharply.

"It was at Llangollen Fair," continued Sinfi, her frank
face beaming like a great child's; "two little chavies we
was then. An' don't you mind, Videy, how we both on us
cried when they put us to bed, 'cause we was afeard the
ceilin' would fall down on us?"

Videy made no answer, but tossed up her head and
looked around to see whether there was a grinning serv-
ant within earshot.

"Good night, Sinfi," I said, shaking her hand ; "and now,
Videy, I will show you your room."

"Oh, but Videy an' me sleeps togither, don't we ?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," I replied.

"She's afeard o' the 'mullos'," said Videy, scornfully, as
she went and stood before an old engraved Venetian mir-
ror I had picked up at Chester, admiring her own perfect

♦House-dwellers.

S ;

The Magic of Snowdon

347

dread,
and his
i spend
gaping
march-
s. But
rent as

led into
:cupied,
bunga-
/s made
loh, the
ow, but

vas very
ived by
e colour
le in his
he was
ed tired,

id voice,

"Don't

ike two

er frank

Lvies we

h on us

ard the

sad and
ig serv-

nd now,

fully, as
ian mir-
perfect

little figure reflected therein. "Ever since she's know'd
you she's bin afeard o' mullos, and keeps Pharaoh with
her o' nights; the mullos never come where there's a
crowin' cock."

I did not look at Sinfi, but bent my eyes upon the mirror,
where, several inches ahovi the reflex of Videy's sarcastic
face, shone the features of Sinfi, perfectly cut as those of a
Greek statue.

"It's the dukkerin' dook* as she's afeard on," said Videy,
smiling in the glass till her face seemed one wicked glitter
of scarlet lips and pearly teeth. "An' yit there ain't no
dukkerin' dook, an' there ain't no mullos."

Among the elaborately-engraved flowers and stars at the
top of the mirror was the representation of an angel grasp-
ing a musical instrument.

"Look, look!" said Sinfi, "I never know'd afore that
angels played the crwth. I wonder whether they can draw
a livin' mullo up to the clouds, same as my crwth can draw
one to Snowdon?"

I bade them good-night, and joined Panuel at the door.

1 was conducting him along the corridor to his room
when the door was re-opened and Sinfi's head appeared,
as bright as ever, and then a beckoning hand.

"Reia," said she, when I had returned to the door, "I
want to whisper a word in your ear" ; and she pulled my
head towards the door and whispered, "Don't tell nobody
about that 'ere jewelled trushul in the church vaults at
Raxton. We shall be going down there at the fair time,
so don't tell nobody."

"But you surely are not afraid of your father," I whis-
pered in reply.

"No, no," said she, bringing her lips so close to my face
that I felt the breath steaming round my ear. "Not daddy
— Videy ! — Daddy can't keep a secret for five minutes. It's
her I'm afeared on."

I had scarcely left the door two yards behind me when I
heard the voices of the sisters in loud altercation. I heard
Sinfi exclaim, "I sha'n't tell you what I said to him, so
now! It was somethin' atween him an' me."

"There they are ag'in," said Panuel, bending his head
sagely roimd and pointing with his thumb over his shoul-
der to the door ; "at it ag'in ! Them two chavies o' mine are

♦The prophesying ghost.

348

Aylwin

alius a-quarrellin' now, an' it's alius about the same thing.
'Tain't the quarrellin' as I mind so much, — women an'
sparrows, they say, must cherrup an' quarrel, — but they
needn't alius keep a-nag-naggin' about the same thing."

"What's their subject, Panuel?" I asked

"Subjick ? Why you, in course. That's v^rhat the subjick
is. When women quarrels you may alius be sure there's
a chap somewheres about."

By this time we had entered his bedroom : he went and
sat upon the bed, and without looking round him began
unlacing his "highlows." I had often on previous occa-
sions remarked that Panuel, who, when sober, was as silent
as Videy, and looked like her in the face, became, the mo-
ment that he passed into "market-merriness," as frank and
communicative as Sinfi, and (what was more inexplicable)
looked as much like Sinfi as he had previously looked like
Videy.

"How can I be the subject of their quarrels?" I said
listlessly enough, for I scarcely at first followed his words.

"How ? Ain't you a chap ?"

"Undoubtedly, Panuel, I am a chap."

"When women quarrels there's alius a chap somewheres
about, in course there is. But look ye here, Mr. Aylwin,
the fault ain't Sinfi's, not a bit of it. It's Videy's, wi' her
dog-in-the-manger ways. She's a back-bred 'un," he said,
giving me a knowing wink as he pulled off his calf-skin
waistcoat and tossed it on to a chair at the further end
of the room with a certainty of aim that would have been
marvellous, even had he been entirely free from market-
merriness.

I had before observed that Panuel when market-merry
always designated Videy the "back-bred 'un, that took
a'ter Shuri's blazin' old dad!" when sober his views of
heredity changed ; the "back-bred 'un" was Sinfi.

After breakfast next morning it was agreed that Panuel
and Videy should walk to the Place to see that everything
was going on well, while Sinfi and I should remain in the
bungalow. I observed from the distance that Videy had
loitered behind her father on the Capel Curig road. I
saw a dark shadow of anger pass over Sinfi's face, and I
soon understood what was causing it. The daughter of the
well-to-do Panuel Lovell and my guest was accosting a
tourist with, "Let me tell you your fortune, my pretty gen-

thing,
en an'
It they

ng.

subjick
there's

jnt and
began
s occa-
LS silent
;he mo-
ink and
)licable)
^ed like

The Magic of Snowdon 349

tlcman. Give the poor Gypsy a sixpence for hick, my
gentleman."

The bungalow delighted Sinfi. "It's just like a great
livin'-waggin, only more comfortable," said she.

We spent the entire morning and afternoon there, and
much of the next two days. It certainly seemed to me
that her mere presence was an immense stimulus to mem-
ory in vitalising its one image.

"What's the use o' us a-keepin' a-talkin' about Winnie ?"
Sinfi said to me one day. "It on'y makes you fret. You
skears me sometimes ; for your eyes are a-gettin' jis' as
sad-lookin' as Mr. D'Arcv's eyes, an' it's all along o*
frettin'."

I persuaded her to stay with me while Panuel a"d Videy
went on to Chester, for she could both soothe and amuse
me.

' I said
J words.

III.

ewheres
Aylwin,

wi' her
he said,

alf-skin
ner end
ve been

market-

t-merry
at took
riews of

Panuel
rything
n in the
dey had
oad. I
I, and I
ir of the
)sting a
tty gen-

Those who might suppose that Sinfi Lovell's lack of
education would be a barrier against our sympathy, know
little or nothing of real sorrow — little or nothing of the
human heart — little or nothing of the stricken soul that
looks out on man and his convention through the light of
an intolerable pain.

I now began to read and study as well as paint. But so
absorbed was I in my struggle with Fenella Stanley and
Romany superstitions, that the only subject which could
distract me from memory was that of hereditary influence
— prepotency of transmission in relation to races. Though
Sinfi could neither read nor write, she loved to sit by my
side and, caressing Pharaoh, to watch me as I read or
wrote. To her there evidently seemed something myste-
rious and uncanny in writing, something like "penning
dukkering." It seemed to her, I think, a much more re-
markable accomplishment than that of painting. And as
to reading, I am not sure that the satirical Videy was en-
tirely wrong in saying that Sinfi believed that books "could
talk jis' like men and women." Not a word would she
speak, save when she now and then bent down her head to
whisper to Pharaoh when that little warrior was inclined to

I i ;

•/^

350

Aylwin

,: I

■'■.i

give a disturbing chuckle, or to shake his wattles. And
when at last she and Pharaoh got wearied by the prolonged
silence, she would begin to murmur in a tone of playful
satire to the restless bird, "Mum, rnum, Pharaoh. He's
too boot of a much to rocker a chojri chavi." [Hush,
hush, Pharaoh. He's too proud to speak to a poor
child.]

Of course there was immense curiosity about my life at
the bungalow, not only among the visitors at the Capel
Curig Hotel, but among the Welsh residents; and rarely
did the weekly papers come out without some paragraph
about me. As a result of this, some of the London papers
reproduced the paragraphs, and built upon their gossip
columns of a positively offensive nature. In a paper which
I will for convenience call the London Satirist appeared a
paragraph which some one cut out of the columns of the
paper and posted to me. It ran thus :

"The Eccentric Aylwins. — The power of heredity, which has
much exercised the mind of Balzac, has never been more strikingly
exemplified than in the case of the great family of the Aylwins. It
is matter of common knowledp"'' that some generations ago one of
the Aylwins married a Gypsy. "his fact did not, however, prevent
his branch from being respectaule, and receiving the name of the
proud Aylwins; and the Gypsy blood remained entirely in abeyance
until the present generation. Mr. Percy Aylwin, it will be remem-
bered, having been smitten by the charms of a certain Rhona Bos-
well, actually set up a tent with the Gypsies; and now Mr. Henry
Aylwin, of Raxton Hall (who, by the bye, has never been seen in
that neighbourhood since the great landslip), is said to be following a
good example by living in Wales with a Gypsy wife, but whether
the wedding took place at St. George's, Hanover Square, or in
simpler fashion in an encampment of Little Egypt we do not
know."

One day in the bungalow, when I was reading the copi-
ous marginalia with which my father had furnished his
own copy of The Veiled Queen, I came upon a passage
which so completely carried my mind back to the
night of our betrothal that I heard as plainly as I had
then heard Winnie's words at the door of her father's
cottage :

"I should have to come in the winds and play around
you in the woods. I should have to peep over the clouds
and watch you. I should have to follow you about wher-
ever you went. I should have to beset you till you said:
'Bother Winnie ! I wish she'd keep in heaven !' "

s. And
olonged
[ playful
1. He's
[Hush,
a poor

ly life at
le Capel
d rarely
iragraph
n papers
r gossip
er which
peared a
IS of the

which has
strikingly
Iwins. It
go one of
r, prevent
me of the
1 abeyance
)e remem-
lona Bos-
Tr. Henry
;n seen in
(llowing a
it whether
are, or in
re do not

the copi-

shed his

passage

to the
is I had

father's

{ around
le clouds
ut wher-
^ou said:

The Magic of Snowdon

351

.r->.

The written words cf niy father that had worked this
magical effect upon me v. re these :

"But after months of these lonely wanderings in Graylingham
Wood and along the sands, not even the reshaping power of mem-
ory would suffice to appease my longing; ;i new hope, wild as new,
was breaking in upon my soul, dim and yet golden, like the sun
struggling through a sea-fog. While wandering with me along the
sands on the eve of that dreadful day when I lost her, she had de-
clared that even in heaven she could not rest without me, nor did
I understand how she could. r'>r by this fimc my instincts had
fully taught me that there is a kind of love so m^^ense that no power
in the universe — not death itself — is strong enough to sever it
from its object. I knew that although true spiritual love, as thus
understood, scarcely exists among Englishmen, and even among
Englishwomen is so rare that the capacity for feeling it is a kind of
genius, this genius was hers. Sooner or later I said to myself,
'She will and must manifest herself!' "

I looked up from the book and saw both Sinfi and
Pharaoh gazing at me.

"Sinfi," I said, "what were Winnie's favourite places
among the hills? Where was she most in the habit of
roaming when she stayed with your people?"

"If I ain't told you that often enough it's a pity, brother,"
she said. "What do you think, Pharaoh?"

Pharoah expressed his acquiescence in the satire by clap-
ping his wings and crowing at me contemptuously.

"The place I think she liked most of all wur that very
pool where she and you breakfasted together on that
morning."

"W^ere there no other favourite places?"

"Yes, there wur the Fairy Glen ; she wur very fond of
that. And there wur the Swallow Falls ; she wur very fond
of them. And there wur a place on the Beddgelert path-
way, up from the Carnarvon road, about two miles from
Beddgelert. There is a great bit of rock there where she
used to love to sit and look across towards Anglesey. And
talking about that place reminds me, brother, that our
people and the Boswells and a lot more are camped on the
Carnarvon road just where the pathway up Snowdon be-
gins. And I wur told yesterday by a 'quaintance of mine
as I seed outside the bungalow that daddy and Videy had
joined them. Shouldn't we go and see 'em?"

This exactly fitted in with the thoughts and projects that
had suddenly come to me, and it was arranged that we
should start for the encampment next morning.

p I

352 Aylwin

As we were leaving the bungalow tlie next day, 1 said
to Sinfi, "You arc not taking your crwth."

"Crwth ! we sha'n't want that."

"Your people are very fond of music, you know. Your
father is very fond of a musical tea."

"So he is. I'll take it," said Sinfi.

IV.

When we reached the camping place on the Carnarvon
road we found a very jolly party. Panuel had had some
very successful dealings, and he was slightly market-merry.
He said to Videy, "Make the tea, Vi, and let Sinfi hev'
hern fust, so that she can play on the Welsh fiddle while
the rest on us are gettin' ourn. It'll seem jist like Chester
Fair with Jim Burton scrapin' in the dancin' booth to heel
and toe."

Sinfi soon finished her tea, and began to play some
merry dancing airs, which set Rhona Boswell's limbs twit-
tering till she spilt her tea in her lap. Then, laughing at
the catastrophe, she sprang up saying, "I'll dance myself
dry," and began dancing on the sward.

After tea was over the party got too boisterous for Sinfi's
taste and she said to me, "Let's slip away, brother, and go
up the pathway, and I'll show you Winnie's favourite
place."

This proposal met my wishes entirely, and under the pre-
tence of going to look at something on the Carnarvon
road we managed to escape from the party, Sinfi still carry-
ing her crwth and bow. She then led the way up a slope
green with grass and moss. We did not talk till we had
passed the slate quarry.

The evc"'ing was so fine and the scene was so lovely that
Sinfi's very body seemed to drink it in and become intoxi-
cated with beauty. After we had left the slate quarries
behind, the panorama became more entrancing at every
yard we walked. Cwellyn Lake and Valley, Moel Hebog,
y Garnedd, the glittering sea, Anglesey, Holyhead Hill, all
seemed to be growing in gold and glory out of masses of
sunset mist.

ay, 1 said

>w. Your

.arnarvon
dad some
:et-merry.
Sinfi hev'
die while
e Chester
;h to heel

lay some
nbs twit-
ghing at
:e myself

or Sinfi's
, and go
avourite

the pre-

irnarvon

ill carry-

a slope

we had

^ely that
intoxi-
qiiarries
every
Hebog,
Hill, all
isses of

The Magic of Snowdon 353

When at last we reached the vi\s<^ of a steep cliff, with
the rocky forehead of Snowdon in front, ami the shining
Uyns of ( "wni y Clogwyn below, Sinfi stopped.

"This IS the place," said she, sitting down on a mossy
mound, "where Winnie loved to come and look down."

After Sinfi and I had sat on this mound for a few min-
utes, I asked her to sing and play one or two Welsh airs
which I knew to be especial favourites of hers, and then,
with much hesitancy, I asked her to play and sing the
same song or incantation which had become associated for
ever with my first morning on the hills.

"Yon mean the Welsh dukkerin' gillie," said Sinfi, look-
ing, with an expression that might have been either alarm
or suspicion, into my face.

"Yes."

"You've been a-thinkin' all this while, brother, that I
don't know why you asked me about Winnie's favourite
places on Snowdon, and why you wanted me to take my
crwth to the camp. But I've been a-thinkin' about it, and
I know now why you did, and I know why you wants
me to play tlie Welsh dukkerin' gillie here. It's because
you heerd me say that if I were to play that dukkerin' gillie
on Snowdon in the places she was fond on, I could tell for
sartin whether Winnie wur alive or dead. If she wur alive
her livin' mullo 'ud follow the crwth. But I ain't a-goin'
to do it."

"Why not, Sinfi?"

"Because my mammy used to say it ain't right to make
use o' the real dukkerin' for Gorgios, and I've heerd her
say that if them as had the real dukkerin' — the dukkerin'
for the Romanies — used it for the Gorgios, or if they turned
it into a sport and a plaything, it 'ud leave 'em altogether.
And that ain't the wust on it, for when the real dukkerin'
leaves you it turns into a kind of a cuss, and it brings on the
bite of the Romany Sap.* Even now> Hal, I sometimes o'
nights feels the bite here of the Romany Sap," pointing to
her bosom, "and it's all along o' you, Hal, it's all along o'
you, because I seem to be breaking the promise about
Gorgios I made to my poor mammy."

"The Romany Sap ? You mean the Romany conscience,
I suppose, Sinfi; you mean the trouble a Romany feels
when he has broken the Romany laws, when he has done

♦The Romany serpent, Conscience.

354

Aylwin

wrong according to the Romany notions of right and
wrong. But you are innocent of all wrong-doing."

"I don't know nothin' about conscience," said she. "I
mean the Romany Sao. Don't you mind when we was
a-goin' up Snowdon r.x'-ter Winifred that mornin'? I told
you as the rocks, nn' the trees, an' the winds, an' the waters,
cuss us when we goes ag'in the Romany blood an' ag'in
the dukkerin' dook. The cuss that the rocks, an' the trees,
an' the winds, an' the waters makes, an' sends it out to bite
the burk* o' the Romany as does wrong — that's the
Romany Sap."

"You mean conscience, Sinfi."

"No, I don't mean nothink o' the sort; the Romanies
ain't got no conscience, an' if the Gorgios has, it's precious
little good as it does 'em, as far as I can see. But the
Romanies has got the Romany Sap. Everything wrong
as you does, such as killin' a Romany, or cheatin' a
Romany, or playin' the lubbany with a Gorgio, or breakin'
your oath to your mammy as is dead, or goin' ag'in the duk-.
derin' dook, an' sich like, every one o' these things turns
into the Romany Sap."

"You're speaking of conscience, Sinfi."

"Every one o' them wrong things as you does seems to
make out o' the burk o' the airth a sap o' its own as has
got its own pertickler stare, but alius it's a hungry sap,
Hal, an' a sap wi' 'bloody fangs. An' it's a sap as follows
the bad un's feet, Hal — follows the bad un's feet where-
somever they goes; it's a sap as goes slippin' thro' the
dews o' the grass on the brightest mornin', and dodges
round the trees in the sweetest evenin', an' goes wriggle,
wriggle across the brook jis' when you wants to enjoy
yourself, jis' when you wants to stay a bit on the steppin'
stuns to enjoy the sight o' the dear little minnows a-shootin"
atween the water-creases. That's what the Romany Sap
is."

"Don't talk like that, Sinfi," I said ; "you make me feel
the sap myself."

"It's a sap, Hal, as follows you everywhere, everywhere,
till you feel as you must stop an' face it whatever comes ;
an' stop you do at last, an' turn round you must, an' bare
youi burk you must to the sharp teeth o' that air wene-
mous sap."

♦Breast.

HI :

ight and

g."
she. "I

we was

' I told

e waters,

m' ag'in

he trees.

It to bite

at's the

omanies
precious
But the
f wrong
eatin' a
breakin'
the duk'
?s turns

leems to

1 as has

?ry sap,

follows

where-

iro' the

dodges

wriggle,

3 enjoy

steppin'

shootin'

ny Sap

me feel

^where,
comes ;
n' bare
■ wcne-

The Magic of Snowdon 355

"Well, and what then, Sinfi?"

"Well then, when you ha' given up to the thing its fill
o' your blood, then the trees, an' the rocks, an' the winds,
an' the waters seem to know, for everythink seems to begin
smilin' ag'in, an' you're let to go on your way till you do
somethin' bad ag'in. That's the Romany Sap, Hal, an'
1 won't deny as 1 sometimes feel its bite pretty hard here
(pointing to her breast) when 1 thinks what 1 promised
my poor manmiy, an' how I kep' my word to her, when
I let a Gorgio come under our tents."*

"You don't mean," I said, "that it is a real ilesh-
and-blood sap, but a sap that vou think you see and
feel."

"Hal," said Sinfi, "-t Romany's feelin's ain't like a Gor~
gio's. A Romany can feel the bite of a sap whether it's
made o' flesh an' blood or not, and the Romany Sap's all
the wuss for not bein' a fiesh-and-blood sap, for it's a cuss
hatched in the airth ; it's everythink a-cussin' on ye — the
airth, an' the sky, an' the dukkerin' dook."

Her manner was so solemn, her grand simplicity was so
pathetic, that I felt I could not urge her to do what her
conscience told her was wrong. But soon that which no
persuasion of mine would have effected the grief and disap-
pointment expressed by my face achieved.

"Hal," she said, "I sometimes feel as if I'd bear the bite
o' all the Romany saps as ever wur hatched to give you a
little comfort. Besides, it's for a true Romany arter all —
it's for myself quite as much as for you that I'm a-goin'
to see whether Winnie is alive or dead. If she's dead we
sha'n't see nothink, and perhaps if she's in one o' them
fits o' hern we sha'n't see nothink ; but if she's alive and
herself ag'in, I believe I shall see — p'raps we shall both see
— her livin' mullo."

She then drew the bow across the crwth. The instru-
ment at first seemed to chatter with her agitation. I
waited in breathless suspense. At last there came clearly
from her crwth the wild air I had already heard on Snow-
don. Then the sound of the instrument ceased save for
the drone of the two bottom strings, and Si^nfi's voice leapt

*To prevent misconceptions, it may be well to say that the
paraphrase of Sinfi's description of the "Romany Sap," which ap-
peared in the writer's reminiscences of George Borrow, was
written long after the main portion of the present narrative.

'3f

3S6

Aylwin

f'l^' i

1 1 '.

1 i

out and I heard the words of what she called the Welsh
dukkering gillie.

As I listened and looked over the wide-stretching pan-
orama before me, I felt my very flesh answering to every
vibration; and when the song stopped and 1 suddenly
heard Sinfi call out, "Look, brother!" I felt that my own
being, physical and mental, had passed into a new phase,
and that resistance to some mighty power governing my
blood was impossible.

"Look straight afore you, brother, and you'll see Win-
nie's face. She's alive, brother, and the dukkeripen of the
Golden Hand will come true, and mine will come true.
Oh, mammy, mammy !"

At first I saw nothing, but after awhile two blue eyes
seemed gazing at me as through a veil of evening haze.
They were looking straight at me, those beloved eyes —
they were sparkling with childish happiness as they had
sparkled through the vapours of the pool when she walked
towards me that morning on the brink of Knockers' Llyn.

Starting up and throwing up my arms, I cried, "My
darling!" The vision vanished. Then turning round, I
looked at Sinfi. She seemed listening to a voice I could
not hear — her face was pale with emotion. I could hear
her breath coming and going heavily ; her bosom rose and
fell, and the necklace of coral and gold coins around her
throat trembled like a shuadering snake while she mur-
mured, "My dukkeripen! Yes, mammy, I've gone agin
you and broke my promise, and this is the very Gorgio
as you meant."

"Call the vision back," I said; "play the air again, dear
Sinfi."

She sprang in front of me, and seizing one of my wrists,
she gazed in my face, and said, "Yes, it's 'dear Sinfi !' You
wants dear Sinfi to fiddle the Georgio's livin' mullo back
to you."

I looked into the dark eyes, lately so kind. I did not
know them. They were dilated and grown red-brown in
hue, like the scorched colour of a North African lion's mane,
and along the eyelashes a phosphorescent light seemed to
play. What did it mean? Was it indeed Sinfi standing
there, rigid as a column, with a clenched brown fist drawn
up to the broad, heaving breast, till the knuckles shone
white, as if about to strike me? What made her throw

The Magic of Snowdon

357

: Welsh

^g pan-

every
uddenly
ny own
r phase,
ing my

:e Win-

1 of the
le true.

Lie eyes
g haze.
eyes —
ley had
walked
5' Llyn.
d, "My
Dund, I
I could
Id hear
3se and
ind her
e mur-
le agin
Gorgio

n, dear

wrists,
' You
o back

lid not

3wn in

; mane,

med to

anding

drawn

shone

throw

out her arms as if struggling desperately with the air,
or with some unseen foe who was binding her with chains ?
I stood astounded, watching her, as she gradually calmed
down and became herself again ; but I was deeply per-
plexed and deeply troubled.

After a while she said, "Let's go back to 'the Place,' "
and without waiting for my acquiescence, she strotlc along
down the path towards Beddgelert.

I was quickly by her side, but felt as little in the mood
for talking as she did. Suddenly a small li:-ard glided from
the grass.

"The Romany Sap!" cried Sinfi, and she — the fearless
woman before whom the stoutest Gypsy men had quailed
— sobbed wildly in terror. She soon recovered herself,
and said : "What a fool you must think me, Hal ! It v;ur
all through talkin' about the Romany Sap. At fust I
thought it wur the Romany Sap itself, an' it wur only a
poor little eflfet arter all. There ain't a-many things made
o' flesh and blood as can make Sinfi Lovell show the
white feather ; but I know you'll think the wuss o' me arter
this, Hal. But while the pictur were a-showin' I hoard my
dear mammy's whisper* 'Little Sinfi, little Sinfi, beware
o' Gorsfios ! This is the one.' "

By the time we reached the encampment it was quite dark.
Panuel, and indeed most of the Gypsies, had turned into the
tents for the night ; but both Videy Lovell and Rhona Bos-
well were moving about as briskly as though the time
was ecrly morning, one with guile expressed in every
feature, the other shedding that aura of frankness and
sweet winsomeness which enslaved Percy Aylwin, and no
wonder.

Rhona was in a specially playful mood, and came danc-
ing round us more like a child of six than a young woman
with a Romany Rye for a lover.

But neither Sinfi nor I was in the mood for frolic. My
living-waggon, which still went about wherever the Lovells

t !■:

358

Aylwin

I )l

went, had been carefully prepared for me by Rhona, and I
at once went into it, not with the idea of getting niucli
sleep, but in order to be alone with my thoughts. What
was I to think of my experiences of that evening? Was
I really to take the spectacle that had seemed to fall upon
my eyes when listening to Sinfi's crwth, or rather when lis-
tening to her song, as evidence that Winifred was alive?
Oh, if I could, if 1 could! Was I really to accept as
true this fantastic superstition about the crwth and the
spirits of Snowdon and the "living mullo"'? That was
too monstrous a thought even for me to entertain. Not-
withstanding all that had passed in the long and dire
struggle between my reason and the mysticism inherited
with the blood of two lines of superstitious ancestors,
which circumstances had conspired to foster, my reason
had only been baffled and thwarted ; it had not really been
slain.

What, then, could be the explanation of the spectacle that
had seemed to fall upon my eyes? "It is hallucination," I
said, "and it is the result of two very powerful causes —
my own strong imagination, excited to a state of feverish
exaltation by the long strain of mv Bering, and that
power in Sinfi which D'Arcy had dcoujibed as her 'half-
unconscious power as a mesmerist.' At a moment w^hen
my will, weakened by sorrow and pain, lay prostrate be-
neath my own fevered imagination, Sinfi's voice, so full of
intense belief in her own hallucination, had leapt, as it
were, into my consciousness and enslaved my imagination,
which in turn had enslaved my will and my senses."

For hours I argued this point with myself, and I ended
by coming to the conclusion that it was "my mind's eye"
alone that saw the picture of Winifred.

But there was also another question to confront. What
was the cause of Sinfi's astonishing emotion after the vision
vanished? Such a mingling of warring passions I had
never seen before, I tried to account for it. I thought
about it for hours, and finally fell asleep without finding
any solution of the enigma.

I had no conversation of a private nature v/ith Sinfi
until the next evening, when the camp was on the move.

"You had no sleep last night, Sinfi, I can see it by the
dark circles round your eyes."

"That's nuther here nor there, brother," -yhc irkI.

>-T.-s.!<ii«w»rj«

ended
s eye"

The Magic of Snowdon 359

I found to my surprise that the Gypsies were preparing
to remove the camp to a place not far from Bettws y Coed.
I suggested to Sinfi that we two should return to the
bungalow. But she told me that her stay there had come to
an end. The firmness with which she made this announce-
ment made me sure that there was no appeal.

"Then," said I, ''my living-waggon will come into use
again. The camping place is near some of the best trout
streams in the neighbourhood, and I sadly want some
trout-fishing."

"We part company to-day, brother," she said. "Wo
can't be pals no more — never no more."

"Sister, I will not be parted from you ; I shall follow you."

"Reia~Hal Aylwin — you knows very well that any man,
Gorgio or Romany, as followed Sinfi Lovell when she told
him not, 'ud ketch a body-blow as wouldn't lea ^e him three
hull ribs, nor a 'ounce o' wind to bless hisself with."

"But I am now one of the Lovells, and I shall go with
you. I am a Romany myself — I mean I am becoming
more and more of a Romany every day and every hour.
The blood of Fenella Stanley is in us both."

She looked at me, evidently astonished at the earnestness
and the energy of my tone. Indeed at that moment I felt
an alien among Gorgios.

"I am now one of the Lovells," I said, "and I shall go
with you."

"We part company to-night, brother, fare ye well," she
said.

As she stood delivering tliis speech — her head erect,
her eyes flashing angrily at me, her brown fists tightly
clenched, I knew that further resistance would be futile.

"But now I wants to be left alone," she said.

She bent her head forward in a listening attitude, and I
heard her murmur, "I knowed it 'ud come ag'in. A
Romany spcrrit. likes to come up in the evenin' and smell
the heather an' see the shinin' stars come out."

While she was speaking, she began to move off between
the trees. But she turned, took hold of both my hands,
and gazed into my eyes. Then she moved away again, and
I was beginning to follow her. She turned and said :
"Don't follow me. There ain't no place for ye among the
Romanies. Go the ways o' the Goigios, Hal Aylwin, an'
let Sinfi Lovell go hern."

360

Aylwin

As I leaned against a tree and watched Sinfi striding
through the grass till she passed out of ^ ht, the entire
panorama of my life passed l)cfore me.

"She has left me with a blessing after all, 1 said; "my
poor Sinfi has taught me the lesson that he who would
fain be cured of the disease of a wasting sorrow must burn
to ashes Memory. He must flee Memory and never look
back."

«,' ^

•,i--

i I'l

VI.

And did I flee Memory? When I re-entered the bungalow
next day it was my intention to leave it and Wales at once
and for ever, and indeed to leave England at once — perhaps
for ever, in order to escape from the inimanning effect
of the sorrowful brooding which I knew had become a
habit. "I will now," T said, "try the nepenthe that all my
friends in their letters ?re urgmg me to try — I will travel.
Yes, I will go to Japan. My late experiences should teach
me that Ja'afar's 'Angel of Memory/ who refashioned for
him his dead wife out of his own sorrow and tears, did him
an ill service. He who would fain be cured of the disease of
a wasting sorrow should try to flee the 'Angel of Memory,'
and never look back."

And so fixed was my mind upon travelling that I wrote
to several of my friends, and told them of my intention.
But I need scarcely say that as I urged them to keep the
matter secret it was talked about far and wide. Indeed,
as I afterwards found to my cost, there were paragraphs
in the newspapers stating that the eccentric amateur painter
and heir of one branch of the Aylwins had at last gone to
Japan, and that as his deep interest in a certain charming
beauty of an un-English type was prqverbial, it was
expected that he would return with a Japanese, or perhaps
a Chinese, wife.

But I did not go to Japan ; and what prevented me?

My reason told me that what I had just seen near
Beddgelert was an optical illusion. I had become very
learned in the subject of optical illusions ever since I had
known Sinfi Lovell, and especially since I had seen that
picture of Winnie in the water near Bettws y Coed, which

The Magic of Snowdon

361

I have described in an earlier chapter. Every book I
could get upon optical illusions I had read, and I was
astonished to find how many instances are on record of
illusions of a much more powerful kind than mine.

And yet I could not leave Snowdon. The mountain's
very breath grew sweeter and sweeter of Winnie's lips. As
I walked about the hills I found mysel! repeating over and
over again one of the verses which Winnie used to sing
to me as a child at Raxton.

Eryri fynyddig i mi,

Bro dawel y delyn yw,
Lie mae'r defaid a'r wyn,

Yn y mwswg a'r brwyn,
Am can inau'n esgyn i fyny,

A'r gareg yn ateb i fyny, i fyny,
O'r lie bu'r eryrod yn byw.*

But then I felt that Sinfi was the mere instrument of
the mysterious magic of y Wyddfa, that magic which no
other mountain in Europe exercises. I knew that among
all the Gypsies, Sinfi was almost the only one who pos-
sessed that power which belonged once to her race, that
power which is expressed in a Scottish word now \\\\\-
versally misused, "glamour," the power which Johnnie Faa
and his people brough: into play when they abducted I.tuly
Casilis.

Soon as they saw her well-faured face
They cast the glamour oure her.

"Yes," I said, "I am convinced that my illusion is the re-
sult of two causes : my own brooding over Winnie's tragedy
and the glamour that Sinfi sheds around her, either con-
sciously or unconsciously; that imperious imagination of
hers which projects her own visions upon the senses of
another person either with or without an exercise of her
own will. This is the explanation, I am convinced."

Wheresoever I now went, Snowdon's message to my
heart was, "She lives," and my heart accepted the message.
And then the new blessed feeling that Winnie v/as not

*Mountain-wiId Snowdon for me!
Sweet silence there for the harp.
Where loiter the ewes and the lambs,
In the moss and the rushes,
Where one's song goes sounding up!
And the rocks re-echo it higher and higher
In the heights where the eagles live.

!: I i-

' }

a 4i,

■ *

A ■

362

Aylwin

lying in a pauper grave had an effect upon me that a few
who read these pages will understand — only a few. Per-
haps, indc i, even those I am thinking of, those who,
having lost the one being they loved, feel that the earth
has lost all its beauty — perhaps even these may not be able
to sympathise fully with me in this matter, never having
had an experience remotely comparable with mine.

When I thought of Winifred lying at the bottom of some
chasm in Snowdon, my grief was very great, as these pages
show. Yet it was not intolerable ; it did not threaten to un-
seat my reason, for even then, when I knew so little of
the magic of y Wyddfa, I felt how close was the connection
between my darling and the hills that knew her and loved
her. But during the time that her death, amidst surround-
ings too appalling to contemplate, hung before my eyes in
a dreadful picture — during the time when it seemed certain
that her death in a garret, her burial in a pauper pit six
coffins deep, was a hideous truth and no fancy, all the
beauty with which Nature seemed at one time clothed was
wiped away as by a sponge. The earth was nothing more
than a charnel house, the skies above it were the roof of
the Palace of Nin-ki-gal. But now that Snowdon had
spoken to me the old life which had formerly made the
world so beautiful and so beloved came back.

All nature seemed rich and glowing with the deep ex-
pectance of my heart. The sunrise and the sunset seemed
conscious of Winnie, and the very birds seemed to be
warbling at times "She's alive."

it a few
V. Per-
le who,
e earth
be able
having

of some
e pages
1 to un-
little of
nection
d loved
rround-
eves ill
certain
pit six
all the
led was
g more
roof of
on had
ide the

XIV.

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

I i

£ep ex-
seemed
to be

I ■

/I ^; ■

i% '

XIV SINFFS COUP DE

THEATRE

Weeks passed by. I visited all the scene that were in the
least degree associated with Winnie.

The two places nearest to me — Fairy Glen and the Swal-
low Falls — which I had always hitherto avoided ( >n account
of their being the favourite haunts of tourists — 1 left to the
last, because I specially desired to see them by moonlight.
With regard to Fairy Glen, I had often heard Winnie say
how she used to go there by moonlight and imagine the
Tylwyth Teg or the fairy scenes of the "Midsummer
Night's Dream" which I had told her of long ago — imagine
them so vividly that she could actually see, on a certain pro-
jecting rock in the cliffs that enclose the dell, the figure
of Titania dressed in green, with a wreath of leaves round
her head. And with regard to the Swallow Falls, I re-
membered only too well her telling me, on the night of
the landslip, the Welsh legend of Sir John Wynn, who
died in the seventeenth century, and whose ghost, impris-
oned at the bottom of the Falls on account of his ill-deeds
in the flesh, was heard to shriek amid the din of the waters.
On that fatal night, she told me that on certain rare
occasions, when the moon shines straight down the chasm,
the wail will become an agonised shriek. I had often won-
dered what natural sound this was which could afford such
pabulum to my old foe, Superstition. So one night, when
the moon was shining brilliantly — so brilliantly that the
light seemed very little feebler than that of day — I walked
in the direction of the Swallow Falls.

Being afraid that I should not get much privacy at the
Falls, I started late. But I came upon only three or four

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^66

Aylwin

■ 1 :

people on the roac'. I had forgotten lliat my own passion
for moonhght was entirely a Romany inheritance. I had
forgotten that a family of English tourists will carefully
pull down the blinds and close the shutters, in order to
enjoy the luxury of candle-light, lamp-light, or gas, when
a Romany will throw wide open the tent's mouth to enjoy
the light he loves most ol all — "chonesko dood,'* as he
calls the moonlight. As I approached the Swallow Falls
Hotel, I lingered to let my fancy feast in anticipation on
the lovely nectacle that awaited me. When I turned iutO
the wood i encountered only one person, a lady, and she
hurried back to the hotel as soon as I approached the river.

Following the slippery path as far aj it led down the dell,
I stopped at the brink of a pool about a dozen yards,
apparently, from the bottom, and looked up at the water.
Bursting like a vast belt of molten silver out of an eerie
wilderness of rocks and trees, the stream, as it tumbled
down between high walls of clifif to the platform of project-
ing rocks around the pool at the edge of which I stood,
divided into three torrents, which themselves were again
divided and scattered by projecting boulders into cascades
before they fell into the gulf below. The whole seemed one
wide cataract of living moonlight that made the eyes ache
with beauty.

Amid the din of the water I listened for the wail which
had so deeply impressed Winifred, and certainly there was
what may be described as a sound within a sound, which
ears so attuned to every note of Superstition's gamut as
Winifred's might easily accept as the wail of Sir John
Wynn's ghost.

There was no footpath down *:o the bottom, but I
descended without any great difHculty, though I was now
soaked in spray. Here the mysterious human sound
seemed to be less perceptible amid the din of the torrent
than from the platform where I had stayed to listen to it.
But when I climbed up again to the spot by the mid-pool
where I had originally stood, a strange sensation came to
me. My recollection of Winnie's words on the night of the
landslip came upon me with such overmastering power
that the noise of the cataract seemed changed to the sound
of billows tumblin J on Raxton sands, and the "wail" of Sir
John Wynn seemed changed to that shriek from Raxtcn
cliff which appalled Winnie as it appalled me.

Sinfi*£ Coup de Theatre

367

1 passion
e. I had

carefully

order to
as, when

to enjoy
I," as he
ow Falls
nation on
rned intO
, and she
the river.
I the deil,
m yards,
lie water.

an eerie

tumbled
I project-

I stood,
jre again

cascades
mied one
yes ache

lil which
here was
d, which
[■amut as
Sir Tohn

but I

was now
n sound
t torrent
en to it.
nid-pool
came to
ht of the

power

le sound

1" of Sir

Raxtcn

The following night I passed into a moonlight as bright
as that which had played me such fantastic tricks at the
Swallow Falls.

It was not until I had crossed the bridge over the
Conway, and was turning to the right in the direction of
Fairy Glen, that I fully realised how romantic the moon-
light was. Every wooded hill and every precipice, whether
craggy and bald or feathered with pines, was bathed in
light that would have made an Irish bog, or an Essex
marsh, or an Isle of Ely fen, a land of poetry.

When i reached Pont Llyn-yr-Afange (Beaver Pool
Bridge) I lingered to look down the lovely lane on the left,
through which I was to pass in order to reach the rocky
dell of Fairy Glen, for it was perfumed, not with the breath
of the flowers now asleep, but with the perfume I love most
of all, the night's floating memory of the flowery breath
of day.

Suddenly I felt some one touching my elbow. I turned
round. It was Rhona Boswell. I was amazed to see her,
for I thought that all my Gypsy friends, Boswclls, Lovells,
and the rest, were still attending the horse-fairs in the Mid-
lands and Eastern Counties.

"WeVe only just got here," said Rhona; "wussur luck
that we got here at all. I wants to get back to dear Gypsy
Dell and Rington Wood ; that's wl'at I wants to do."

"Where is the camp?" I asked.

"Same place, twix Bettws and Capcl Curig."

She had been to the bungalow, she told me, with a
message from Sinfi. This message was that she particu-
larly wished to meet me at Mrs. Davies's cottage — "not at
the bungalow" — on the following night.

"She'll go there to-morrow mornin'," said Rhona, "and
make things tidy for you; but she won't expect you till
night, same time as she met you there fust. She's got a
key o' the door, she says, wot you gev her."

I was not so surprised at Sinfi 's proposed place of meet-
ing as I should have been had I not remembered her resolu-
tion not to return to the bungalow, and not to let me return
to the camp.

"You must be sure to go to meet her at the cottage
to-morrow night, else you'll be too late."

"Why too late?" I asked.

"Well," said Rhona, "I can't say as I knows why ezackly.

368

Aylwin

'iin

But I know she's bin an' bought beautiful dresses at
Chester, or somewheres, — an' I think she's goin' to be
married the day arter to-morrow."

"Married ! to whom ?"

"Well, I can't say as I rightly knows," said Rhona.

"Do you know whether Mr. Cyril is in Wales ?" I asked.

"Yes," said Rhona, "him and the funny un are not far
from Capel Curig. Now I come to think on't, it's mose
likely Mr. Cyril as sne's goin' to marry, for I know it ain't
no Romany chal. It cant be the funny un," added she,
laughing.

"But where's the wedding to take place?"

"I can't say as I knows ezackly," said Rhona; "but I
thinks it's by Knockers' Llyn if it ain't on the top o'
Snowdon."

"Good heavens, girl!" I said. "What on earth makes
you think that? That pretty little head of yours is stuffed
with the wildest nonsense. I can make nothing out of
you, so good-night. Tell her I'll be there."

And I was leaving her to walk down the lane when I
turned back and said, "How long has Sinfi been at the
camp ?"

"On'y jist come. She's bin away from us for a long
while," said Rhona.

And then she looked as if she was tempted to reveal
some secret that she was bound not to tell.

"Sinfi's been very bad," she went on, "but she's better
now. Her daddy says she's under a cuss. She's been
a wastin' away like, but she's better now."

"So it's Sinfi who is under a curse now," I said to myself.
"I suppose Superstition has at last turned her brain. This
perhaps explains Rhona's mad story."

"Does anybody but you think she's going to be mar-
ried?" I asked her. "Does her father think so?"

"Her daddy says it ain't Sinfi as is goin' to be married ;
but / think it's Sinfi ! An' you'll know all about it the day
arter to-morrow." And she tripped away in the direction
of the camp.

Lost in a whirl of thoughts and speculations, I turned
into Fairy Glen. And now, below me, lay the rocky dell
so dearly beloved by Winnie; and there I walked in such
a magic web of Hght and shade as can only be seen in that
glen when the moon hangs over it in a certain position.

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

369

resscs at
n' to be

Diia.

' I asked,
e not far
it's mose
w it ain't
ided she,

i; "but I
le top o'

th makes
is stuffed
g out of

e when I
sn at the

)r a long

to reveal

e's better
le's been

to myself,
lin. This

be mar-

married ;
it the day-
direction

I turned
ocky dell
1 in such
m in that

position.

I descended the steps to the stream and sat down for a
time on one of the great boulders and asked myself if this
was the very boulder on which Winnie used to sit when
she conjured up her childish visions of fairyland. And by
that sweet thought the beauty of the scene became intensi-
fied. There, while the unbroken torrent of the Conway —
glittering along the nar^-ow gorge of the glen between
silvered walls of rock as upright as the turreted bastions of
a castle — seemed to flash a kind of phosphorescent light of
its own upon the flowers and plants and sparsely scattered
trees along the sides, I sat and passed into Winifred's own
dream, and the Tyhvyth Teg, which to Winnie represented
Oberon and Titania and the whole group of fairies, swept
before me.

Awaking from this dream, I looked up the wall of the
cliff to enjoy one more sight of the magical beauty, when
there fell upon my eyes, or seemed to fall, a sight that,
though I felt it must be a delusion, took away my breath.
Standing on a piece of rock that was flush with one of
the steps by which I had descended was a slender girlish
figure, so lissome that it might have been the famous
"Queen of the Fair People."

"Never," I said to myself, "was there an optical illusion
so perfect. I can see the moonlight playing upon her
hair. But the hair is not golden, as the hair cf the
Queen of the Tylwyth Teg should be ; it is dark as Win-
nie's own."

Then the face turned and she looked at the river, and
then I exclaimed "Winifred!" And then Fairy Glen van-
ished and I was at Raxton standing by a cottage door in
the moonlight. I was listening to a voice — that one voice
to whose music every chord of life within me was set for-
ever, which said :

"I should have to come in the winds, and play around you
on the sands. I should have to peep over the clouds and
watch you. I should have to follow you about wherever
you went."

The sight vanished. Although I had no doubt that what
I had seen was an hallucination, when I moved further on
and stood and gazed at the stream as it went winding
round the mossy cliffs to join the Lledr, I felt that Winnie
was by my side, her hand in mine, and that we were chil-

■*?

h '

370

Aylwin

dren together. And when I mounted the steps and strolled
along the path that leads to the plantation where the moon-
light, falling through the leaves, covered the ground with
what seemed symbolical arabesques of silver and grey and
purple, I felt the pressure of little fingers that seemed to
express "How beautiful!" And when I stood gazing
through the opening in the landscape, and saw the rocks
gleaming in the distance and the water down the Lledr
valley, I saw the sweet young face gazing in mine with
the smile of the delight that illumined it on the Wilderness
road when she discoursed of birds and the wind.

The vividness of the vision of Fairy Glen drove out for
a time all other thoughts. The livelong night my brain
seemed filled with it.

"My eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest,"

I said to myself as I lay awake. So full, indeed, was my
mind of this one subject that even Rhona's strange mes-
sage from Sinfi was only recalled at intervals. While I
was breakfasting, however, this incident came fully back
to me. Either Rhona's chatter about Sinfi's reason for
wanting to see me was the nonsense that had floated into
Rhona's own brain, the brain of a love-sick girl to whom
everything spelt marriage — or else poor Sinfi's mind had
become unhinged.

II.

As I was to sleep at the cottage, and as 1 knew not what
part I might have to play in Sinfi's wild frolic, I told the
servants that any letters which might reach the bungalow
next morning were to be sent at once to the cottage,
should I not have returned thence.

At about the hour, as far as I cculd guess, when I had
first knocked at the cottage door, at the beginning of my
search for Winnie, I stood there again. The door was on
the latch. I pushed it open.

The scene I then saw was so exact a repetition of what
bad met my eyes when for the first time I passed under

Sinfi*s Coup de Theatre

37^

strolled
z moon-
nd with
rey and
jmed to

gazing
le rocks
e Lledr
ne with
Iderness

out for
y brain

was my
afe mes-
^hile I
ly back
.son for
ted into
3 whom
ind had

ot what
told the
mgalow
cottage,

1 I had

<; of my
was on

of what
I under

that roof that it did not seem as though it could be real ;
it seemed as though it must be a freak of memory: the
same long, low, room, the same heavy beams across the
ceiling, the same three chairs, standing in the same places
where they stood then, the same table, and upon it the
crwth and bow. There was a brisk fire, and over it hung
the kettle — the same kettle as then. There were on the
walls the same pictures, with the ruddy fingers of the fire-
gleam playing upon them and illuminating them in the
same pathetic way, and in front of the fire, sitting upon the
same chair, was a youthful female figure — not Winnie's
figure, taller than hers, and grander than hers — the figure
of Sinfi, her elbows resting upon her knees, and her face
sunk meditatively between her hands.

After standing for fully half a minute gazing at her, I
went up to her, and laying my hand upon her shoulder,
I said, "This is a good sight for the Swimming Rei,
Sinfi."

At the touch of my hand a thrill seemed to dart through
her frame; she leaped up and stared wildly in my face
Her features became contorted with terror — as horribly
contorted as Winnie's had been in the same spot and under
the same circumstances. Exactly the same terrible words
fell upon my ear : —

"Let his children be vagabonds and beg their bread ;
let them seek it also out of desolate places. So saith the
Lord. Amen."

Then she fell on the floor insensible.

At first I was too astonished, awed, and bewildered
to stir from the spot where I was standing. Then I knelt
down, and raising her shoulders, placed her head on my
knee. For a time the expression of horror on her pale
features was fixed as though graven in marble. A jug of
water, from which the kettle had been supplied, stood on
the floor in the recess. I sprinkled some water over her
face. The muscles relaxed, she opened her eyes; the
seizure had passed. She recognised me, and at once
the old brave smile I knew so well passed over her face.
Rhona's words about the curse and the purchase of the
dresses seemed explained now. Long brooding over Win-
nie's terrible fate had unhinged her mind.

"My girl, my brave girl." I said, "have you, then, felt
our sorrow so deeply? Have you so fully shared poor

&. :

ffl

372

Aylwin

'•'. -I f

I):- r

Winnie's pain that your nerves have given way at last?
You are suffering through sympathy, Sinfi ; you are suffer-
ing poor Winnie's great martyrdom."

"Oh, it ain't that!" she said, ''but how I must have
skeared you!"

She got up and sat upon the chair in a much more
vigorous way than I could have expected after such a
seizure.

"I am so sorry," she said. "It was the sudden feel o*
your hand on my shoulder that done it. It seemed to burn
me like, and then it made my blood seem scaldin' hot. If
rd only 'a' seed you come through the door I shouldn't
have had the fit. The doctor told me the fits wur all
gone now, and I feel sure as this is the last on 'em. You
must go to Knockers' Llyn with me to-morrow mornin*
early. I want you to go at the same time that we started
when we tried that mornin' to find Winnie."

"Then Rhona's story is true," I thought. *'Her delusion
is that she is going to Knockers' Llyn to be married."

"The weather's goin' to be just the same as it was then,"
she said, "and when we get to Knockers' Llyn where you
two breakfasted together, I want to play the crwth and
sing the song just as I did then."

She made no allusion to a wedding. Getting up and
pouring the boiling water from the kettle into the tea-
pot, "Something tells me," she went on, "that when I touch
my crwth to-morrow, and when I sing them words by the
side of Knockers' Llyn, you'll see the picture you want
to see, the livin' mullo o' Winnie."

"Still no allusion to a wedding, but no doubt that will
soon come," I murmured.

"I want to go the same way we went that day, and I
want for you and me to see everythink as we seed it then
from fust to last."

I was haunted by Rhona Boswell's words, and wondered
when she would begin talking about the wedding at
Knockers' Llyn.

She never once alluded to it ; but at intervals when the
talk between us flagged I could hear her muttering, "He
must see everythink just as he seed it then from fust to
last, an' then it's good-bye forever."

At last she said, "I've had both the rooms upstairs made

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

373

at last?
re suff cr-
ust have

ch more
r such a

n feel o'
1 to burn
' hot. If
shouldn't

wur all
m. You

mornin'
e started

delusion
ricd."
is then,"
lere you
wth and

up and
the tea-

I touch
5 by the
)U want

hat will

, and I
it then

)ndered
iing at

hen the
R, "He
fust to

s made

tidy to sleep in — one for you and one for me. I'll call you
in the mornin' at the proper time. Good night."

I was not sorry to get this summary dismissal and be
alone with my thoughts. When I got to bed I was kept
awake by recalling <^he sight I saw on entering the cottage.
There seemed no other explanation of it than this, the
tragedy of Winifred had touched Sinfi's sympathetic soul
too deeply. Her imagination had seized upon the spectacle
of Winifred in one of her fits, and had caused so serious a
disturbance of her nervous system that through sheer fas-
cination of repulsion her face mimicked it exactly as Wini-
fred's face had mimicked the original spectacle of horror on
the sands.

III.

It was not vet dawn when I was aroused from the fitful
slumber into which I had at last fallen by a sharp knocking
at the door. When I answered the summons by "All right,
Sinfi," and heard her footsteps descend the stairs, the words
of Rhona Boswell again came to me.

I found that I must return to the bungalow to get my
bath.

The startled servant who let me in asked if there was
anything the matter. I explained my early rising by tell-
ing him that I was merely going to Knockers' Llyn to see
the sunrise. He gave me a letter which had ccme on the
previous evening, and had been addressed by mistake to
Carnarvon. As the handwriting was new to me, I felt sure
that it was only an unimportant missive from some stranger,
and I put it into my pocket without opening it.

On my return I found Sinfi in the little room where we
had supped. I guessed that an essential part of her crazy
project was that we should breakfast at the llyn.

On the table was a basket filled with the materials for the
breakfast.

Another breakfast was spread for us two on the table,
and the teapot was steaming. Sinfi saw me look at the two
breakfasts and smile.

"We've got a good way to walk before we get to the pool

i ^

374

Aylwin

where we arc goin' to breakfast," she said,
we'd take a snack before we start."

'so I thought

;,, , I

As we went along I noticed that the air of Snowdon
seemed to have its usual effect on Sinfi. In taking the path
that led to Knockers' Llyn we saw before us Cwm-Dyli, the
wildest of all the Snowdonian recesses, surrounded by
frowning precipices of great height and steepness. We then
walked briskly on towards our goal. When the three peaks
that she knew so well — y Wyddfa, Lliwedd, and Crib Goch
— stood out in the still grey light slie stopped, set down her
basket, clapped her hands, and said, "Didn't I tell you the
mornin' was a-goin' to be ezackly the same as then? No
mists to-day. By the time we get to the llyn the colours o'
the vapours, what they calls the Knockers' flags, will come
out ezackly as they did that mornin' when you and me first
went arter Winnie."

All the way Sinfi's eyes were fixed on the majestic fore-
head of y Wyddfa and the bastions of Lliwedd, which
seemed to guard it as though the Great Spirit of Snowdon
himself was speaking to her and drawing her on, and she
kept murmuring "The two dukkeripens."

But still she said nothing about her wedding, though that
some such mad idea as that suggested by Rhona possessed
her mind was manifest enough.

"Here we are at last," she said, when we reached the pool
for which we were bound ; and setting down her litde basket
she stood and looked over to the valley beneath.

The colours were coming more quickly every minute,
and the entire picture was exactly the same as that which
I had seen on the morning when we last saw Winifred on
the hills — so unlike the misty drama that Snowdon mostly
presents. Y Wyddfa was silhouetted against the sky, and
looked as narrow and as steep as the sides of an acorn. Here
we halted and set down our basket.

As we did so she said, "Hark ! the Knockers ! Don't you
hear them? Listen, listen!"

I did listen, and I seemed to hear a peculiar sound as of a
distant knocking against the rocks by some soft substance.
She saw that I heard the noise.

"That's the Snowdon spirits as guards more copper mines
than ever yet's been found. And they're dwarfs, I've seed

M r^

llr

thought

nowdon
the path
3yH, the
ided by
Wq then
le peaks
ib Goch
:)\vn her
you the
n ? No
ilours o'
ill come
me first

tic fore-
, which
nowdon
md she

gh that
ssessed

he pool
basket

ninute,
which
red on
mostly
:y, and
. Here

I't you

as of a
stance.

mines
c seed

Sinti's Coup dc Theatre 375

'cm, and Winnie has. They're little, fat, short folk, some-
thin* like the wc»nan in Primrose Court, only littler. Don't
you mind the gal in the ccu."t said Winnie used to call the
woman Knocker? Sometimes they knock to show to some
Taflfy as has pleased 'em where the veins of copper may be
found, and sometimes they knock to give warnin' of a dan-
gerous precipuss, and sometimes they knock to give the
person as is talkin' warnin' that he's sayin' or doin' some-
thin' as may lead to danger. They speaks to each other
too, but in a vi'ce so low that you can't tell what words
they're a-speakin', even if you knew their language. My
crwth and song will rouse every spirit on the hills."

I listened again. This was the mysterious sound that had
so captivated Winnie's imagination as a child.

The extraordinary lustre of Sinfi's eyes indicated to me,
who knew them so well, that every nerve, every fibre in her
system, was trembling under the stress of some intense
emotion. I stood and watched her, wondering as to her
condition, and speculating as to what her crazy project
could be.

Then she proceeded to unpack the little basket.

"This is for the love feast," said Sinfi.

"You mean betrothal feast," I said. "But who are the
lovers?"

"You and the livin' mullo that you made me draw for you
by my crwth down by Beddgelcrt — the livin' mullo o'
Winnie Wynne."

"At last then," I said to myself, "I know the form the
mania has taken. It is not her own betrothal, but mine with
Winnie's wraith, that is dek.ding her crazy brain. How
well I remember telling her how I had promised Winnie as
a child to be betrothed by Knockers' Llyn. Poor Sinfi!
Mad or sane, her generosity remains undimmed."

Before the breakfast cloth could be laid — indeed before
the basket was unpacked — she asked me to look at my
watch, and on my doing so and telling her the time, she
jumped up and said, "It's later than I thought. We must
lay the cloth arterwards," She then placed me in that same
crevice overlooking the tarn whence Winnie had come to
me on that morning.

Knockers' Llyn, it will perhaps be remembered, is en-
closed in a little gorge opening by a broken, ragged fissure
at the back tc !.he east. Leading to this opening there is

376

Aylwin

:::.!

on one side a narrow, jagged shelf which runs half-way
round the pool. Sinfi's movemenrs now were an exact repe-
tition of everything she did on that first morning of our
search for Winnie.

While I stood partially concealed in my crevice, Sinfi
took up her crwth, which was lying- on the rock.

"What are you going to do, Sinfi?" I said.

"I'm just goin' to bring back old times for you. You re-
member that mornin' when my crwth and song called Win-
nie to us at this very llyn? I'm goin' to play on my crwth
and sing the same song now. It's to draw her livin' mullo,
as I did at Bettws and Beddgelert, so that the dukkeripen
of the 'Golden Hand' may come true."

"But how can it come true, Sinfi?" I said.

"The dukkeripen alius does come true, whether it's good
or whether it's bad."

*'Not always," I said.

"No, not alius," she cried, starting up, while there came
over her face that expression which had so amazed me at
Beddgelert. When at last breath came to her she was look-
ing towards y Wyddfa through the kindling haze.

"There you're right, Hal Aylwin. It ain't every duk-
keripen as comes true. The dukkeripen alius ccmes true,
unless it's one as says a Gorgio shall come to the Kaulo
Camloes an' break Sinfi Lovell's heart. Before that duk-
keripen shall come true Sinfi Lovell 'ud cut her heart out.
Yes, my fine Gorgio, she'd cut it out — she'd cut it out and
fhng it in that 'ere llyn. She did cut it out when she took
the cuss on herself. She's a-cuttin' it out now."

Then without saying another word Sinfi took up her
crwth and moved towards the llyn.

"You'll soon come back, Sinfi?" I said.

"We've got to see about that," she replied, still pale and
trembling from the effects of that sudden upheaval of the
passion of a Titaness. "If the livin' mullo does come you
can't have a love-feast without company, you know, and I
sha'n't be far off if you find you want me."

She then took up her crwth, went round the llyn, and dis-
appeared through the eastern cleft. In a few minutes I
heard her crwth. But the air she played was not the air of
the song she called the "Welsh dukkerin' gilly which I had
heard by Beddgelert." It was the air of the same idyll of
Snowdon that I first heard Winifred sing on the sands of

Sinfi

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre 377

Raxtoii. Then I lieard in the distance those echoes, magi-
cal and faint, which were attributed by Winifred and Sinfi
to the Knockers or spirits of Snowdon.

her

There I stood again, as on that other morning, in the
crevice overloolving the same llyn, looking at what might
well have been the same masses of vapour enveloping the
same peaks, rolling as then, boiling as then, blazing as then,
whenever the bright shafts of morning struck them. There
I stood again, listening to the wild notes of Sinfi's crwth in
the distance, as the sun rose higher, pouring a radiance
through the eastern gate of the gorge, and kindling the
aerial vapours moving about the llyn till their iridescent
sails suggested the wings of some enormous dragon-fly of
every hue.

"Her song does not come," I said, "but, this time, when
it docs come, it will not befool my senses. Sinfi's own pres-
ence by my side — that magnetism of her, which D'Arcy
spoke of — would be required before the glamour could be
cast over me, now that I know she is crazy. I oor Sinfi !
Her influence \ "11 not to-day be able to cajole my eyes into
accepting her superstitious visions as their own."

But as I spoke a sound fell, not upon my ears alone, Lut
upon every nerve of my body, the sound of a voice sinj^ing
— a voice that vv^s not Sinfi's, but another's :

I met in a gale a lone little maid

At the foot of y Wyddfa the white;
Oh, lissome her feet as the mountain hind

And darker her hair than the night;
Her cheek was like the mountain rose,

But fairer far to see,
As driving along her sheep with a song

D'~wn from the hills came she.

It was the same voice that I heard singing the same song on
Raxton Sands. It was the same voice that I heard singing
the same song in the London streets — Winnie's !

And, then there appeared in the eastern cleft of the
gorge, at the other side of the llyn, illuminated as by a rosy

I i

■i:

''f n

378

Aylvvin

steam, Winnie ! Amid the opalescent vapours gleaniinu
round the llyn, with eyes now shimmering as ihrough a
veil — now flashing like sapphires in the sun — there she
stood gazing through the film, her eyes expressing a sur-
p'''se and a wonder as great as my own.

*'it is no phantasm — it is no hallucination," I said, while
my breathing had become a spasmodic, choking gasp.

But when I remembered the vision of Fairy Glen, I S2id :
"Imagination can do that, and so can the glamour cast over
me by Sinfi's music. It does not vanish ; ah, if the sweet
madness should remain with me for ever! It does not
vanisl; — it is gliding along the side of the llyn : it is moving
towards me= And now those sudden little ripples in the
llyn — what do they mean? The trout are flying from her
shadow. The feet are grating on the stones. And hark!
that pebble which falls into the water with a splash ; the
glassy llyn is ribbed and rippled with rings. Can a phantom
do that? It comes towards me still. Hallucination!"

Still the vision came on.

When I felt the touch of her body, when I felt myself
clasped in soft arms, and felt falling on my face warm tears,
and on my iip«; the pressure of Winnie's lips — lips that were
murmuring, "At last, at last!" — a strange, v^ild effect was
worked within me. The reality of the beloved form now
in my arms declared itself; it bi ought back the scene where
I had last clasped it.

Snowdon had vanished; the brilliant morning sun had
vanished. The moon was shining on a cottage near Rax-
ton Church, and at the door two lovers were standing, wet
with the sea-water — with the sea-water through which they
had just waded. All the misery that had followed was
wiped out of my brain. It had not even the cobweb con-
sistence of a dream.

When, after a while, Snowdon and the drama of the pres-
ent came back to me, my brain was in such a marvellous
state that it held two pictures of the same Winnie as though
each hemisphere of the brain were occupied with its own
vision. I was kissing Winnie's sea-salt lips in the light of
the moon at the cottage door, and I was kissing them in
the morning radiance by Knockers' Llyn. And yet so over-
whelming was the mighty tide of bliss overflowing my soul

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

379

tiiat there was no room within me for any other emotion —
no room for curiosity, no room even for wonder.

Like a spirit awakening in Paradise, I accepted the
heaven in which I found myself, and did not inquire how I
got there.

This ('.id not last long, however. Suddenly and sharply
the moonlight scene vanished, and i was on Snowdon, and
there came a burning curios'.ty to know the meaning of this
new life — the meaning of the life of pain that had followed
the parting at the cottage door.

"Winnie," I said, "tell me where we are. I have been very
ill since we parted in your father's cottage. I have had the
wildest hallucinations concerning you ; dreams, intolerable
dreams. And even now they hang about me ; even now it
seems to me that we are far c vay from Raxton, surrounded
by the hills and peaks of Snowdon. If they were real you
would be the dream, but you are real ; this waist is real."

vvf course we are on Snowdon, Henry !" said she. "You
must indeed have been ill — -you must now be very ill — to
suppose you are at Raxton."

'But what are v/e doing here?" I said. "How did we
come here?"

"Let Badoura speak for herself only," she said, with that
aich smile of hers. She was alluding to the old days at
Raxton, when she hoped that some day her little Camaral-
zaman would be carried by genii to her as she sat thinking
of him hy the magic llyn. "The genie who brought me
was Sinfi Lovell. But who brought Camaralzaman? That
is a question," she said, "I am dying to have answered."

At the name of Sinfi Lovell the past came flowing in.

"Then there is a Sinfi Lovell, Winnie! And yet she is
one of the figures in the dream. There was no Sinfi Lovell
with us at Raxton."

"Of course there is a Sinfi Lovell ! You begin to make
me as dazed as yourself. You have known her well; you
and she were seeking me when I was lost."

"Then you were lost?" I said. "That, then, is no dream.

38o

Aylwin

ii !

was dead, Henry. Sinfi

Then, looking intently at

sorrow has changed you.

And yet if you were lost you have been But you are

alive, Winnie. Let me feel the lips on mine again. You
are alive. Snowdon told me at last that you v/ere alive, but
I dared not believe it, my darling. I dared not believe that
my misery would end thus — thus."

There came upon her face an expression of distressed per-
plexity which did more than anything else to recall me to
my senses.

"Winnie," I said, "my brain is whirling. Let us sit
down."

She sat down by my side.

"You thought your Winnie
Lovell has told me all about it."
me, she said, "And how your
dear !"

"You mean it has aged me, Winnie. I have observed it
myself, and people tell me it has made me look older than
I am by many years. These fu'Tows around the eyes —
these furrows on my brow — you are kissing them, dear."

"Oh! I love them; how I love them!" she said. "I am
net kissing them to smooth them away. To me every line
tells of your love for Winnie."

"And the hair, Winnie — look, it is getting quite grizzled."
Then, as the lovely head sank upon my breast, 1 whispered
in her ears, "Is there at last sorrow enough in the eyes,
Winnie? Has the hardening effect of wealth coarsened my
expression? Can a rich man for once enter the kingdom
of love? Is the betrothal now complete? Are we boih be-
trothed now?"

I stopped, for bliss and love were convulsing her with
sobs, until you might have supposed her heart was breaking.

While she lay silent thus, I was able in some degree to
call my wits around me. And the difficulty of knowing in
what course I ought to direct conversation presented itself,
and seemed to numb my faculties and paralyse me.

After a while she became more composed, and sat in a
trance, so to speak, of happiness.

But phe remained silent. The conversation, I perceived,
would ave to be directed entirely by me. With the appall-
ing se -ures ever present in my mind, I felt that every word
that came fiom my lipF was dangerous.

■m

Sinli's Coup de Theatre

381

you are
1. You
live, but
eve that

ised per-
il me to

t us sit

/. Sinfi
tently at
jed you,

served it
der than
e eyes —
dear."
. "I am
very line

grizzled."
whispered
he eyes,
ened my
cingdom
both be-

ner with
breaking.

iegree to

owing in

ed itself,

"Look," I said, "the colours of the vapours round the
llyn are as rich as they were when we breakfasted here
together."

"We breakfasted here together! Why, what do you
mean?" she said, looking in my face. "You forget, Henry,
you never knew me in Wales at all ; it was only at Raxton
that you ever saw me."

"I mean when you breakfasted with the Prince of the
Mist. I was the Prince of the Mist, dear."

She gave me a puzzled look which scared while it warned
me. How cruel it seemed of Sinfi, who had planned this
meeting, not to have told me how much and how little Win-
nie knew of the past.

"You know nothing about the Prince of the Mist except
what I told you on Raxton sands," she said. "But you have
been very ill ; you will be well now."

"Yes," I said; "I have found the life I had lost, and these
dreams of mine will soon pass."

As the conversation went on I began to see that she re-
membered our meetings on the sands — remembered every-
thing up to a certain point. What was that point? This
was the question that kept me on tenter-hooks.

Every word she uttered, however, shed light into my
mind, and served as a warning that I must feel my way cau-
tiously. It was evident to me that in some unaccountable
way Sinfi at some time after she left me at Beddgelert had
discovered that Winnie was not really dead, and had
brought her back to me — brought her back to me restored
in mind, but with all memory of what had passed during
her dementia erased from her consciousness. Everything
depended now upon my learning how much of her past she
did remember. A single ill-judged word of mine — a single
false move — might ruin all, and bring back the life of misery
which I seemed at last to have left behind me.

sat in a

erceived,
le appall-
ery word

VI.

"Winnie," I said, "you have not yet told me how you came
here. You have not yet told me how it is that you meet me
on Snowdon — meet me in this wonderful way."
"Oh," said she with a smile, "Badoura has been a mere

^82

Aylwin

[ ^

'•;«)^

puppet in the play. She had no idea she was going to meet
lier prince. Sinfi was suddenly seized with a desire that she
and I should come back, and visit the dear old places we
knew together. I was nothing loth, as you may imagine,
but I could not understand what had made her set her
heart upon it. When we reached Carnarvonshire I found
that Sinfi's people were all encamped near to Bettws y
Coed, and we went and stayed there. We visited all the
places in the neighborhood that were associated with her
childhood and mine."

"You went to Fairy Glen?" I said.

"Yes; v/e went there the night before last and saw it in
the moonlight."

"I was there, and I saw you."

"Ah ! then the man sitting on the boulder at the bottom
was you! How wonderful! Sinfi was there on the step
round the corner; she must have seen you. I know now
why she suddenly hurried me away. She had told me that
she wanted to see the Glen by moonlight."

"Then you did not know that you would meet me here?"

"My dear Henry, do you suppose that if I had known, I
could have been induced to take part in anything so thea-
trical? When I saw you standing here my amazement and
joy were so great that I forgot the strange way in which I
stood exhibited."

I felt that the longer she chatted about such matters as
these the more opportunities I should get of learning how
much and how little she knew of her own story, so I said :

"But tell me how Sinfi contrived to trick you."

"Well, tl is morning was the time fixed for our visiting
Llyn Coblynau, as we call Knockers' Llyn, which was my
favourite place as a child. We were to see it when the
colours of the morning were upon it. Then we were to go
right to the top of Snowdon and take a mid-day meal at the
hut there, and in the evening go down to Llanberis and
sleep there. To-morrow morning we were to go to dear
old Carnarvon and see again the beloved sea. I find now
that her plan was to bring you and me together in this
sensational way."

"Will she join us?" I asked.

"I know no more than you what will be Sinfi's next
whim. At the last moment yesterday I was surprised to
find that I was not to come with her here, as she was not to

Sinfi's Coup de Theatre

3«3

to meet
that she
laces we
imagine,
set her
I found
Jettws y
1 all the
with her

saw it m

t bottom
the step
low now
I me that

le here?"
known, I
so thea-
nent and
I which I

latters as
ling how
I said :

visiting
was my
when the
ere to go
eal at the
beris and
) to dear
find now
ir in this

nfi's next
•prised to
vas not to

sleep in the camp last night because she had promised to see
a friend at Capel Curig. And now, shall I tell you how she
inveigled me into taking my part in this Snowdon play she
was getting up? She told me that she had the greatest wish
to discover how the 'Knockers' echoes,' as they are called,
would sound if in the early morning, lIic were to play her
crwth in one spot, and I were to answer it from another spot
with a verse of a Welsh song. It seemed a pretty idea, and
it was agreed that when I reached the llyn I was to go
round it to the opening at the east, pass through the crevice,
and wait there till I heard her crwth."

"Well, Winnie, I must say that the way in which our
Gypsy friend manipulated you, and the way in which she
manipulated me, shows a method that would have done
credit to any madness."

"You? How did she trick you?"

I was determined not to talk about myself till I had felt
my way.

"Winnie, dear," I said, "seeing you is such a surprise,
and my illness has left me so weak, that I must wait before
talking about myself. I shall be more able to do this after
I have learnt more of what has befallen you. You say that
Sinfi proposed to bring you to Wales ; but where were you
when she did so? And what brought you into contact with
Sinfi again after — after — after you and I were parted in
Raxton?"

"Ah ! that is a strange story indeed," said Winifred. "It
bewilders me to recall it as much as it will bewilder you
when you come to hear it. I, too, seem to have been ill,
and quite unconscious for months and months."

"Winnie," I said, "tell me this strange story about your-
self. Tell it in your own way, and do not let me interrupt
you by a word. Whenever you see that I am about to
speak, stop me — put your hand over my mouth."

"But where am I to begin?"

"Begin from our first meeting on the sands on the night
of the landslip."

But while I spoke I thought I observed her looking at
the breakfast provided by Sinfi with something like the
same wistful expression that was on her face on that morn-
ing forgotten by her but remembered by me so well, when
she breakfasted so heartily on the same spot.

"Winnie," I said, "this mountain air has given me a

384

Aylwin

voracious appetite. I wonder whether you could manage
to eat some of these good things provided by our theatrical
manageress."

"I wonder whether I could," said Winnie. "I'll try — if
you'll ask me no questions, but talk about Snowdon and
watch the changes of the glorious morning. But we must
call Sinfi."

"No, no. I want to talk to ycu alone first. By the time
your story is over I at least shall be ready for another
breakfast, and then we will call her."

This was agreed upon, and I sat down to my second
breakfast with Winnie beside Knockers' Llyn. I sat with
my face opposite to the llyn, and we had scarcely begun
when I noticed Sinfi's face peeping round a corner of the
little gorge. Winnie's back being turned from the llyn she
did not see Sinfi, who gave me a sign that her part of that
performance was to be looker-on.

I have not time to dwell upon what was said and done
during our breakfast in this romantic place, and under these
more than romantic circumstances. During the whole of
the time the Knockers kept up their knockings, and it really
seemed as though the good-natured goblins were express-
ing their welcome to the child of y Wyddfa.

Id manage
r theatrical

I'll try—if
)wclon and
It we must

y the time
)r another

ny second
I sat with
ely begun
ner of the
le llyn she
art of that

and done
nder these
; whole of
id it really
e express-

XV.

The Daughter of
Snowdon's Story

XV.— THE DAUGHTER OF
SNOWDON'S STORY

After the breakfast was ended Winifred went over the en-
tire drama of that night of the landslip as far as she knew
it. There was not an important incident that she missed.
Every detail of her narrative was so vividly given that I
lived ii all over again. She recalled our meeting on the
sands, snd my inexplicable bearing when she told me of the
seaman's present of precious stones to her father. She dwelt
upon mj mysterious conduct in insisting upon our ascend-
ing the diflf by different gangways. She recalled her pick-
ing up from the sands a parchment scroll and spelling out
by the mDonlight the words of the curse it called down
upon the kead of any one who should violate the tomb from
which the parchment and the jewel had been stolen, but
as she repeated the words of the curse she was evidently
unconsciots of the tremendous import of the words in re-
gard to hcRelf and her father. She told me of her desire to
conceal fron me, for my own sake merely, the evidence af-
forded by ^e scroll that my father's tomb had been vio-
lated. She recalled my seeing the parchment and being
thrown thereby into a state of the greatest mental agony.
She recallec my taking her hand as we neared the new
tongue of laid made by the debris, and peering round it as
though in diead of some concealed foe, but evidently she
had no idea vJiat was behind there. She described the way
in which my "foot slipped on the sand," and how I was
thrown back ipon her as she stood waiting to pass the
debris herself. She spoke of my unaccountable and ap-
parently mad suggestion that we should, although the tide
was coming in, and we were already in danger of being im-

388

"i\

■!>

5 I

Aylwin

prisoned in the cove and drowned, sit down on the boulder
made sacred to us both by our childish betrothal. She spoke
of her own suspicion, and then 'her conviction, that some
great calamity was threatening me on account of the viola-
tion of the tomb, and that the knowledge of this was govern-
ing all these strange movements of mine. She reminded
me of my telling her that the shriek we both heard at the
moment when the cliff fell was connected with the crime
against my father and that it was the call from the grave,
which according to wild traditions will sometimes come to
the heir of an old family. She recalled the very words I
used when I told her that in answer to this call I intended
to remain there until the tide came in and drowned me.
She dwelt upon the way in which I urged her to go and
leave me, her own resolution to die with me, and her cutting
up her shawl into a rope and tying herself to me. She re-
called the sudden thunderous noise of the settlement in re-
sponse to the tide, and my springing up and running to
the mass of debris and looking round it, and then my calling
her to join me ; and finally she described her running to-
ward Needle Point in order to pass round it before the tide
should get any higher, her plunging into the sea and my
pulling her round the Point.

It was manifest, from the first word she uttered to the
last, that she had no idea who was the "miscreart," to use
her oft-repeated word, who committed the sacnlege, and
nothing could express what relief this gave m) heart. I
felt as though I had just escaped from some peril too dire to
think of with calmness.

"You remember, Henry," said she, "how we ran to the
cottage in our wet clothes. You remember hov we parted
at the cottage door. From that night till now wc have never
met, and now we meet — here on Snowdon — at tlie very llyn
I was always so fond of."

"But tell me more, Winnie — tell me what occurred to
you on the next morning."

"Well," said she. "I was always a sound sleeper, but
my fatigue that night made me sleep tmtil ate the next
morning. I hurried up and got breakfast re;dy for father
and myself. I then went and rapped at hij door, but I
got no answer. His room was empty."

Winifred paused here as thougli she expeded me to say
something. A thousand things occurred to iie to ask, but

boulder
le spoke
at some
le viola-
govern-
sminded

1 at the
e crime

2 grave,
come to
words I
ntended
tied me.

go and
■ cutting

She re-
it in re-
ining to
r calling
tiing to-
the tide
and my

to the
to use
ge, and
eart. I
) dire to

I to the
: parted
e never
ery llyn

rred to

er, but

le next

- father

but I

to say
isk, but

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 389

''ntil I knew more — until I knew how much and how
uttle she remembered of that dreadful time, I dared ask her
nothing — I dared make no remark at all. I said "Go on,
Winnie; pray do not break your story."

"Well," said she, "I found that my father had not re-
turned during the night. I did not feel disturbed at that,
his ways were so uncertain. I did not even hurry over
my breakfast, but dallied over it, recalling the scenes of
the previous night, and wondering what some of them
could mean. I then went down the gangway at Needle
Point to walk on the sands. I thought I might meet
father coming from Dullingham. I had to pass the land-
slip, where a great number of Raxton people were gathered.
They were looking at the frightful relics of Raxton church-
yard. They were too ('rcadful for me to look at. I walked
right to Dullingham without meeting my father. At Dull-
ingham I was told that he had not been there for some
days. Then, for the first time, I began to be haunted by
fears, but they took no distinct shape. When I returned
to the landslip the people were still there, and still very
excited about it. In the afternoon I went again on the
sands, thinking that I might see my father and also that I
might see you. I walked about till dusk without seeing
either of you, and then I went back to the cottage. I had
now become very anxious about my father, and sat up all
night. The next morning after breakfast I went again on
the sands. The number of people collected round the land-
slip seemed greater than ever, and many of them, I think,
came from Graylingham, Rington, and Dullingham. They
seemed more excited than they had been on the previous
day, and they did not notice me as I joined them. I heard
some one say in a cracked and piping voice, 'Well, it's my
belief as Tom lays under that there settlement. It's my
belief that he wur standing on the edge of the church-
yard cliff, and when the cliff fell he fell with it.' Then the
kind and good-natured little tailor Shales saw me, and I
thought he must have made some signal to the others,
for they all stood silent. I felt sure now that for some
reason unknown to me, it was generally believed that my
father had perished in the landslip. Mrs. Shales took me
by the hand, and gently led me away up the gangway.
When we reached the cottage I asked her whether my
father's body had been found. She told me that it had not,

■f

i '

'■!

i h'

390

Aylwin

and was not likely to be found, for if it had really fallen with
the landslip his body lay under tons upon tons of earth.
I shall never forget the misery of that night; kind Mrs.
Shales would not leave me, but slept in the cottage. I
had very little doubt that the Raxton people were right
in their dreadful guesses about my father. I had very little
doubt that while walking along the clilT, either to or from
the cottage, he had reached the point at the back of the
church at the moment of the landslip, antl been carried
down with it, and I now felt sure that the shriel' you and I
both heard was his shriek of terror as he fell. I bethought
me of the jewels that my tathcr's sailor friend was to give
him, and searched the cottage for them. As I could not
find them, I felt sure that it was on his return from his
meeting with his sailor friend, when the jewels were upon
him, that he fell with the landslip."

Again Winnie paused as if awaiting some question, or
at least some remark from me.

"Did you make no inquiries about me?" I said.

"Oh, yes," said she; "my grief at the loss of my father
was very much increased by my not being able to see you.
Mrs. Shales told me that you were ill — very ill. And
altogether, you may imagine my misery. Day after day I
got worse and worse news of you. And day after day it
became more and more certain that my father had perished
in the way people supposed. I used to spend most of the
day on the sand, gazing at the landslip, and searching for
my father's body. Every one tried to persuade me to give
up my search, as it was hopeless, for his body was certain
to be buried deep under the new tongue of land."

"But you still continued your search, Winnie?" I said,
remembering every word Dr. Mivart had told me in con-
nection with lier being found by the fishermen.

"Yes, I found it impossible not to go on with it. But
one mornmg after there had been a great storm, followed
by a further settlement of the landslip, I went out alone on
the clifTs. I said to myself, This shall be my last search.'
By this time the news of your illness and the anxiety I felt
about you helped much in blunting the anxiety I felt
about my father's loss. But on this very morning I am
speaking of something very extraordinary happened."

"Don't tell me, Winnie. For God's sake, don't tell me !
It will disturb you; it will make you ill again."

en with
[ earth,
d Mrs.
age. I
e right
ry little
or from
: of the
carried
u and I
thought
to give
(uld not
rom his
re upon

tion, or

y father

see you.

1. And

r day I

r day it

perished

;t of the

hing for

to give

certain

I said,
in con-
it. But
followed
alone on
; search.'
ety I felt
;y I felt
ng I am
id."
tell me !

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 391

She looked at mc in evident astonishment at my words.

"Don't tell you, Henry? Why, there is nothing to tell,"
said she. "As I was walking along the sands, looking at
the new tongue of land made by the landslip, I seem to
have lost consciousness."

"And you don't know what caused this?"

"Not in the least ; unless it was my anxiety and want
of sleep. This was the beginning of the long illness that
I spoke of, and I seemed to have remained cjuite without
consciousness until a few weeks ago. I often try to make
my mind bring back the circumstances under which I lost
consciousness. I throw my thoughts, so to speak, upon a
wall of darkness, and tliey come reeling back like wa^* cs
that are dashed against a cliff."

"Then don't do so an\ more, Winnie. I know enough
of such matters to tell you confidently that you never will
recall the incidents connected with your collapse, and that
the endeavour to do so is really injurious to you. What in-
terests me very much more is to know the circumstances
under which you came to yourself. I am dying with
impatience to know all about that."

II.

"When I came to myself," said Winifred. "I was in a
world as new and strange and wonderful as that in which
Christopher Sly found himself when he woke up to his new
life in Shakspeare's play."

She paused. She little thought how my flesh kindled
with impatience.

"Yes, Winnie," I said ; "you arc going to tell me how,
and where, and when you were restored to life — regained
your consciousness, I mean — unless it will too deeply
agitate you to tell me."

"It will not agitate mc in the least, Henry, to tell you
all about it. But it is a long story, and this seems a
strange place in which to tell it, surrounded by these glori-
ous peaks and covered by this roof of sunrise. But do
you tell me all about yourself, all about your illness, which
seems to have been a dreadful one."

392

Aylwin

:e ,

My story, indeed ! What was there in my story that I
could or dare tell her? My story would have to be all
about herself, and the tragedy of the supposed curse, and
the terrible seizures from which she had recovered, and of
which she must never know. I set to work to persuade
her to tell me all she knew.

At last she yielded, and said, "Well, I awoke as from a
deep sleep, and found myself lying on a couch, with a
man's face bending over mine. I could not help exclaim-
ing, *Hen'-y!' "

"Then did he resemble me ?" I asked.

"Only in this — that in his eyes t!.cre v/as the expression
which has always appealed to me more than any other
expression, whether in human eyes or in the eyes of ani-
mals. I mean the pleading, yearning expression of lone-
liness that there was in your eyes when they were the eyes
of a little lame boy who could not get up the gangways
without me."

"Ah, the egotism of love," I exclaimed. "You mean,
Winnie, that expression whicb my unlucky eyes had lost
when we met upon the sands after our childhood was
f 3ssed."

"But which love," said she, "love of Winnie, sorrow for
the loss of Winnie, have brought back, increased a thou-
sandfold, till it gives me pain and yet a delicious pain to
look into them. Oh, Henry, I can't go on ; I really can't,
if you look "

She burst into tears.

When she got calmer she proceeded.

"It was only in the expression of your eyes that he re-
sembled you. He was much c^der, and wore spectacles.
He, on his part, gave a start when he looked into my eyes.
It seemed to me that he had been expecting to see some-
thing in them which he did not find there, and was a little
disappointed. I then heard voices in the room, which was
evidently, from the sound of the voices, a large roon'.
and I looked round. I saw that there was another couch
close to mine, but nearly hidden from view by a large
screen between the two couches. Evidently a woman was
lying on the other couch, for I could see her feet ; she was
a tall woman, for her feet reached out much beyond my
own.'*

"Good heavens, Winnie," I exclaimed, "what on earth

that I
be all

se, and
and of

^rsiiade

from a
with a
xclaim-

iression
f other
of ani-
Df lone-
he eyes
ngways

mean,
iad lost
od was

row for
a thou-
pain to
y can't,

he re-
ctacles.
ly eyes.
; some-

a little
ich was

roon^ .
• couch
large
an was
he was
)nd my

earth

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 393

is coming? But I promised not to interrupt you. Pray
go on, I am all impatience."

"Well, at the sound of the voices the gentleman started,
and seemed much alarmed — alarmed on my account, I
thought.

"I then heard a voice say, *A most successful experi-
ment. Look at the face of this other patient, and see the
expression on it.'

"The gentleman bent over me, and hurriedly raised me
from the couch, and then fairly carried me out of the
room. But you seem very excited, Henry, you have turned
quite pale."

It would have been wonderful if I had not turned pale.
So deeply burnt into my brain had been the picture I had
imagined of Winnie dead and in a pauper's grave that
even now, with Winnie in my arms, it all came to me, and I
seemed to see her lying in a pauper's shroud, and being
restored to life, and I said to her, "Did you observe — did
you observe your dress, Winnie?"

She answered my question by a little laugh.

"Did I observe my dress at such a moment? Well, I
knew you could be satirical on my sex when you are in the
mood, but, Henry, there are moments, I assure you, when
the first thing a woman observes is not her dress, and
this was one. Afterwards I did observe it, and I can tell you
v/hat it was. It was a walking dress. Perhaps," said she
with a smile, "perhaps you would like to know the mater-
ial? But really I have forgotten that."

"Pardon my idle question, Winnie — pray go on. I will
interrupt you no more."

"Oh, you will interrupt me no more! We shall see.
The gentleman then led me through a passage of some
length."

"Do describe it!"

"I felt quite sure you would interrupt me no more.
Well! The dim light in the windows made me guess I
was in an old house, and from the sweet smell of hay and
wild flowers I thought we were near the Wilderness, at
Raxton. I could only imagine that I had fallen insensible
on the sands and been taken to Raxton Hall."

"Ah ! that's where you ought to have been taken," I
could not help exclaiming.

"Surely not," said Winnie.

lii

>ffiii

394

Aylwi

"Why?"

"Your mother! But why have you turned so angry?"

In spite of all that I had lately witnessed of my mother's
sufferings from remorse, in spite of all the deep and genuine
pity that those sufferings had drawn from me, Winnie's
words struck deeper than any pity for any creature but
herself, and for a moment my soul rose against my mother
again.

"Go on, Winnie, pray go on," I said.

"You will make me talk about myself," said Winifred,
"when I so much want to hear all about you. This is
what I call the self-indulgence of love. Well, t^en, the
gentlema'- and I mounted some steps and then we entered
a tapestried room. The windows — they were quaint and
old-fashioned casements — were open, ard the sunlight was
pouring through them. I then saw at once that I was not
anywhere near Raxton. Besides, there was no sea-smell
mixed with the perfumes of the flowers and the songs of
the birds. That I was not near Raxton, very much amazed
me, you may be sure. And then the room w^as so new to
me and so strange. I had never been in an artist's studio,
but Sinfi had talked to me of such places, and there were
many signs that I was in a studio now."

"A studio! And not in London! Describe it, Winnie,"
I said.

Although she had told me that the house was in the
country, my mind flew at once to Wilderspin's studio.
"You say that the gentleman w^as not young, but that he
had an expression of sorrow in his eyes. Had he long
iron-grey hair, and was he dressed — dressed, like a — like a
shiny Quaker?" So full was my mind of Mrs. Gudgeon's
story that I was positively using her language.

"Like a what?" exclaimed Winnie. "Really, Herry, you
have become very eccentric since our parting. The gen-
tleman had not iron-grey hair, and he was not dressed
in the least like a Quaker, unless a loose, brown lounge
coat tossed on anyhow over a waistcoat and trousers of
the same colour is the costume of a shiny Quaker. But it
was the room you asked me to describe. There were pic-
tures on the walls, and there were two easels, and on one
of them I saw a picture. The gentleman led me to a
strange ind very beautiful piece of furniture. If I at-
tempted to describe it I should call it a divan, under a

igry

other's
eniiine
innie's
re but
[Tiother

inifred,
rhis is
in, the
entered
nt and
^ht was
iras not
a-smell
)ngs of
amazed
new to
studio,
"C were

innie,

in the
studio,
that he
le long
—like a
igeon's

ry, you
le gen-
dressed
lounge
sers of
But it
2re pic-
on one
le to a
f I at-
inder a

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 395

j^oigeous kind of awning ornamented with Chinese figures
in ivory and precious stones. Now, isn't it exactly like
an Arabian Nights story, Henry?"

"Yes, yes, Winnie ; but pray go on. What did the gentle-
man do?"

"He drew a chair towards me, and without speaking
looked into my face again. The expression in his eyes
drew me towards him, as it had at first done when I awoke
from my trance ; it «lrew me towards him partly because it
said, 'I am lonely and in sorrow,' and partly from another
cause which J could not understand and could never define,
howsoever I might try. 'Where am I?' I said; 'I remem-
ber nothing since I fell on the sands. Where is Henry?
Is he better or worse? Can you tell me?' The gentleman
said, 'The friend you inquire about i« a long way from here,
and you are a long way from Raxton.' I asked him why I
was a long way from Raxton, and said, 'Who brought me
here? Do, please, tell me what it means. I am amongst
friends — of that I am sure ; there is something in your
voice which assures me of that; but do tell me what this
mystery means.' 'You are indeed among friends,' he said.
Then looking at me with an expression of great kindness,
he continued, 'It would be difficult to imagine where you
could go without finding friends. Miss Wynne.' "

"Then he knew who you were, Winnie?" I said.

"Yes, he knew who I was," said she, looking meditatively
across the hills as though my query had raised in her own
mind some question which had newly presented itself.
"The gentleman told me that I had been very ill and was
now recovered, but not so entirely recovered at present
that I could with safety be burthened and perplexed with
the long story of my illness and what had brought me there.
And when he concluded by saying, 'You arc here for your
good,' I exclaimed, 'Ah, yes ; no need for me to be told that.'
for his voice convinced me that it was so. 'But surely you
can tell me something. Where is Henry? Is he still ill?'
1 said. He told me that he believed you to be perfectly
well, and that you had lately been living in Wales, but had
now gone to Japan. 'Henry lately in Wales! now gone to
Japan'.' I exclaimed, 'and he was not with me after the
illness that you say I have just recovered from?"

"Winnie," I said, "it was no wonder you asked those
questions, but you will soon know all."

39^

Aylwin

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Whilst Winnie had been talking my mind had been partly
occupied with words that fell from her about the voice of
her mysterious rescuer. They seemed to recall something.
"You were saying, Winnie, that 'the gentleman had a pe-
culiarly musical voice," I said.

"So musical," she replied, "that it seemed to delight and
charm, not m.y mind only, but every nerve in my body."
"Could you describe it?"

"Describe a voice," she said, laughing. "Who could de-
scribe a voice?"
"You, Winnie ; only you. Do describe it."
"I wonder," she said, "whether you remember our first
walk along the Raxton road, when I made invidious com-
parison between the voices of birds and the voices of men
and women?"

"Indeed I do," I said. "I remember how you suggested
that among the birds the rooks only could listen without
ofTence to the cackle of a crowd of people."

"Well, Henry, I can only give you an idea of the gentle-
man's voice by saying that the most fastidious blackbirds
and thrushes that ever lived would have liked it. Indeed
they did seem to like it, as I afterwards thought, when I
took walks with him. It was music in every variety of tone ;
and, besides, it seemed to me that this music was enriched
by a tone which I had learned from your own dear voice
as a child, the tone which sorrow can give and nothing
else. The listener, while he was speaking, felt so drawn to-
wards him as to love the man who spoke. When his voice
ceased, some part of his attraction ceased. But the mo-
ment the voice was again heard the magic of the man re-
turned as strong as ever."

III.

For some time during Winnie's narrative glimmerings of
the gentleman's identity had been coming to me, and what
she said of the voice seemed to be turning these glimmer-
ings into shafts of light. I was now in a state of the greatest
impatience to verify my surmise. But this only gave a
sharper edge to my intense curiosity as to hozv she had been
rescued by him.

tn partly
voice of
nething.
lad a pe-

ight and
L>ody."

:ould de-

our first
Dus com-
s of men

uggested
I without

le gentle-
ilackbirds
, Indeed
■ when I
f of tone ;
enriched
ear voice
I nothing
irawn to-
his voice
the mo-
man re-

lerings of
and what
gUmmer-
e greatest
y gave a
had been

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 397

"Winnie," I said, "you have said nothing about his ap-
pearance. Could you describe his face?"

"Describe his face?" said Winnie. "If I were a painter
I could paint it from memory. But who can paint a face in
words?"

Then she launched into a description of the gentleman's
appearance, and gave me a specimen of that "objective"
power which used to amaze me as a child, but which I
afterwards found was a specialty of the girls of Wales.

"I should like a description of him feature by feature," I
said.

She laughed and said, "I suppose I must begin with his
forehead then. It was almost of the tone of white marble,
and contrasted, but not too violently, with the thin crop of
dark hair slightly curling round the temples, which were
partly bald. The forehead in its form was so perfect that
it seemed to shed its own beauty over all the other feat-
ures; it prevented me from noticing, as I afterwards did,
that these other fertures, the features below the eyes, were
not in themselves beautiful. The eyes, which looked at me
through spectacles, were of a colour between hazel and
blue-grey, but there were lights shining within them which
were neither grey, nor hazel, nor blue — wonderful lights.
And it was to these indescribable lights, moving and alive
in the deeps of the pupils, that his face owed its extraordi-
nary attractiveness. Have I sufficiently described him? or
am I to go on taking his face to pieces for you?"

"Go on, Winnie — pray go on."

"Well, then, between the eyes across the top of the nose,
where the bridge of the spectacles rested, there was a
strongly marked indented line which had the appearance
of having been made by long-continued pressure of the
spectacle frame. Am I still to go on?"

"Yes, yes."

"The beauty of the face, as I said before, was entirely
confined to the upper portion. It did not extend lower
than the cheek bones, which were well shaped."

"The mouth, Winnie? Describe that, and then I need
not ask you his name, thougn perhaps you don't know it
yourself."

"A dark brown moustache covered the mouth. I have
always thought that a mouth is unattractive if the lips are
.eo close to the teeth that they seem to stick to them ; and

111

398

Ayl

win

t ' IfiJ H*

yet what a kind wuniaii Mrs. Shales is, and her mouth is of
this kind. But on the other hand where the space between
the teeth and the hps is too great no mouth can be called
beautiful, I think. Now, thoug^h the mouth of the gentle-
man was not ill-cut, the lips were too far from the teeth, I
thought ; they were too loose, a little baggy, in short. And
when he laughed "

"What about that, Winnie? I specially want to know
about his laugh."

"Then I will tell you. When he laughed his teeth were
a little too much seen; and this gave the mouth a some-
what satirical expression."

"Winnie," I said, "there is no need now for you to tell me
the name of the gentleman. In a few sentences you have
described him better than I could have done in a hundred."

"And certainly there is no leason why I should not tell
you his name," she said, laughing, "for if there is a word
that is musical in my ears, it is the name c him whose voice
is music — D'Arcy. When he told me that I should know
everything in time, and that there was nothing for me to
know except that which would give me comfort, and said,
'You confide in me !' I could only answer, 'Who would not
confide in you? I will wait patiently until you tell me what
you have to tell.' 'Then,' said he, 'the best thing you can
do is to lie down for an hour or two on that divan and rest
yourself, and go to sleep if ycu can, while I go and attend
to certain affairs that need me.' He then left the room.
I was glad to be alone, for I was terribly tired. I felt as
though I had been taking violent bodily exercise, but with-
out feeling the staying power that Snowdon air can give.
I lay down on the divan, and must have fallen asleep imme-
diately. When I woke I found the same kind face near me,
and the same kind eyes watching me. Mr. D'Arcy told me
that I had been sleeping for two hours, and that it had, he
hoped, much refreshed me. He told me also that he took
a constitutional walk every day, and asked me if I would
accompany him. I said, 'Yes, I should like to do so.' At
this moment there passed the window some railway men
leaving some luggage. On seeing them Mr. D'Arcy said,
'I see that I must leave you for a minute or two to look
after a package of canvases that has just come from my as-
sistant in London,' and he left me. When I was left alone
I had an opportunity of observing the room. The walls

loutli is of
:e between
I be called
he gcntle-
lie teeth, I
lort. And

t to know

teeth were
h a some-

1 to tell me
you have
hundred."
Id not tell
is a word
hose voice
)uld know
for me to
, and said,
I would not
il me what
g you can
n and rest
md attend
the room.
I felt as
but with-
can give,
eep imme-
e near me,
;y told me
it had, he
at he took
f I would
o so.' At
ilvvay men
Arcy said,
^o to look
Dm my as-
left alone
The walls

The Daughter of Snovvdon's Story 399

were covered with old faded tapestry, so faded indeed that
its general effect was that of a dull grey texture. On look-
ing at it closely I found that it told the story of Samson.
Every piece of furniture seemed to me to be a rare
curiosity."

"Now, Winnie," I said, "I am not going to mterrupt you
any more. I want to hear your story as an unbroken nar-
rative."

IV.

•'Well," said Winnie, "after a while Mr. D'Arcy returned
and told me that he was now ready to take me for a stroll
across the meadows, saying, 'The doctor told me that, at
first, your walks must be short ; so while you go to your
room I will get Mrs. Titwing in for my usual consultation
about our frugal meal.'

"'My room,' I said, 'my room, and Mrs. Titwing;
who's '

" 'Ha ! I quite forgot myself,' he said, with an air of
vexation, which he tried, 1 thought, to conceal. 'I will ring
for Mrs. Titwing — the hcuGjkeeper — and she will take you
to your room.'

"He walked towards the bell, but before reaching it he
stopped as if arrested by a sudden thought. Then he said,
*I will go to the housekeeper's room and speak to Mrs.
Titwing there. I shall be back in a minute.' And he passed
from the room through the door by which he and I had first
entered.

"Scarcely had the door closed behind him before a
woman entered by another door opposite to it. She was
about the common height, slender, and of an extremely
youthful figure for a woman of middle age. Her bright
complexioned face, lit by two watery blue eyes, was pleas-
ant to look upon. It w'as none the less pleasant because
it showed clearly that she was as guileless as a child.

"I knew at once that she was the person — the house-
keeper — tjiat Mr. D'Arcy had gone to seek at the other side
of the house. Evidenly she had come upon me unexpect-
edly, for she gave a violent start, then she murmured to
herself : ■

■-,-■ ^ny-T^ ,i",ii_. .i"i<mprr'^r*^V!.'^^ ■*■

400

Aylwin

I: i I

" 'So it's all over, and all went off well,' she said. Then
she walked quietly towards me and threw her arms round
me and kissed me, saying, 'Dear child, I am so glad.'

"The tone of voice in which she spoke to me was exactly
that of a nurse speaking to a little child.

"I was so taken by surprise that I pulled myself from
her embrace with some force. The poor woman looked at
me in a hurt way and then said :

*' T beg your pardon, miss. I didn't notice at first how
— how changed you are. The look in your eyes makes me
feel that you are not the same person, and that I have done
quite wrong.'

"While she was speaking Mr. D'Arcy had re-entered the
room by the door by which he went out. He had evidently
heard the housekeeper's words.

" 'Miss Wynne,' he said, 'this is Mrs. Titwing, my ex-
cellent housekeeper. She has been attending you during
your illness ; but your weakness was so great that you were
unconscious of all her kindness.'

*T went up to her and kissed her rosy cheek, at which
she began to cry a little. I afterwards found that she was
in the habit of crying a little on most occasions.

" 'Will you, then, kindly show me my room ?' I said to
her. But as she turned round to lead the way to the room,
Mr. D'Arcy said to her,

" 'Before you show Miss Wynne the way, I should like
one word with you, Mrs. Titwing, in your room, about the
arrangements for the day.'

"The two passed out of the room and again I was left to
myself and my own thoughts.

"Evidently there was some mystery about me," said Wini-
fred, continuing her story. "But the more I tried to think
it out the more puzzling it seemed. How had I been con-
veyed to this strange, new place? Who was the wizard
whose eyes and whose voice began to enslavfe me? and
what time had passed since he caught me up on Raxton
sand? It seemed exactly like one of those Arabian Nights

i 1

aid. Then
irms round
glad.'
vas exactly

lyself from
ti looked at

it first how

, makes me

have done

entered the
.d evidently

ng, my ex-
you during
at you were

k, at which
lat she was

I said to
) the room,

should like
, about the

was left to

said Wini-
d to think
been con-
Ithe wizard
me? and
n Raxton
ian Nights

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 401

stories which you and I used to read together when we
were children. The waking up on the couch, the sight of
the end of the other couch behind the screen, and the tall
woman's feet upon it, the voices from unseen persons in the
room, and above all the strange magic of him who seemed
to be the directing genie of the story — all would have
seemed to me unreal had it not been for the prosaic figure
of Mrs. Titwing. About her there could not possibly be
any mystery ; she was what Miss Dalrymple would have
called *the very embodiment of British commonplace,' and
when, after a minute or two, she returned with Mr. D'Arcy,
I went and kissed her again from sheer delight of feeling
the touch of her real, solid, commonplace cheek, and to
breathe the commonplace smell of scented soap. Her bear-
mg, however, towards me had become entirely changed
since she had gone out of the room. She did not return the
kiss, but said, 'Shall I show you the way, miss?' and led the
way out.

"She took me through the same dark passage by which
I had entered, and then I found myself in a large bedroom
with low panelled walls, in the middle of which was a vast,
antique bedstead made of black carved oak, and every bit
of furniture in the room seemed as old as the bedstead.
Over the mantlepiece v/as an old picture in a carved oak
frame, a Madonna and Child, the beauty of which fascina-
ted me. I remember that on the bottom of the frame was
written in printed letters the name 'Chiaro dell 'Erma.' 1
was surprised to find in the room another walking dress
laid out ready for me to put on, not new, but slightly worn.
I lifted it up and looked at it. I saw at a glance that it
would most likely fit me like a glove.

" 'Whose dress is this?' I said.

" 'It's yours, miss.'

" 'Mine? But how came it mine?'

" *Oh, please don't ask me any questions, miss,' she said.
'Please ask Mr. D'Arcy, miss ; he knows all about it. I am
only the housekeeper, miss.*

" 'Mr. D'Arcy knows all about my dress !' I said. 'Why,
what on earth has Mr. D'Arcy to do with my dress?'

" 'Please don't ask me any more questions, miss,' she
said. 'Pray don't. Mr. D'Arcy is a very kind man ; I am
sure nobody has ever heard me say but what he is a very
kind man ; but if you do what he says you are not to do,

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402 Aylwin

if you talk about what he says you are not to talk about, he
is frightful, he is awful. He calls you a chattering old — I
don't know what he won't call you. And, of course, I
know you are a lady, miss. Of course you look a lady, miss,
when you are dressed like one. But then, you see, when I
first saw you, you were not dressed as you are now, and at
first sight, of course, we go by the dress a good deal, you
know. But Mr. D'Arcy needn't be afraid I shall not treat
you like a lady, miss. I'm only a housekeeper now, though,
of course, I was once very different — very different indeed.
But, of course, anybody has only to look at you to see you
are a lady, and besides Mr. D'Arcy says you are a lady, and
that is quite enough.'

"At this moment there came through the door — it was
ajar — Mr. D'Arcy's voice from the distance, so loud and
clear that every word could be heard.

" 'Mrs. Titwing, why do you stay chattering there, pre-
venting Miss Wynne from getting ready? You know we
are going out for a walk together.'

*' 'Oh Lord, miss !' said the poor woman in a frightened
tone, 'I must go. Tell him I didn't chatter — tell him you
asked me questions and I was obliged to answer them/

"The mysteries around me were thickening every mo-
ment. What did this prattling woman mean about the dress
in which she had at first seen me? Was the dress in which
she had first seen me so squalid that it had affected her
simple imagination? What had become of me after I had
sunk down on Raxton sands, and why was I left neglected
by every one? I knew you were ill after the landslip, but
Mr. D'Arcy had just told me that you had since been well
enough to go to Wales, and afterwards to Japan.

"I put on the dress and soon followed her. When I
reached the tapestried room there was Mr. D'Arcy talking
to her in a voice so gentle, tender and caressing, that it
seemed impossible the rough voice I had heard bellowing
through the passage could have come from the same mouth,
and Mrs. Titwing was looking into his face with the de-
lighted smile of a child who was being forgiven by its father
for some offence. As I stood and looked at them I said to
myself, 'Truly I am in a land of wonders.'

: about, he
ing old — I

course, I
lady, miss,
ee, when I
ovv, and at

deal, you
1 not treat
Wy though,
int indeed,
to see you

I lady, and

or — it was
> loud and

there, pre-
i know we

frightened

II him you
hem.'
every mo-
lt the dress
s in which
fected her
ifter I had

neglected

idslip, but

been well

When I
cy talking
ig, that it
bellowing
me mouth,
th the de-
its father
11 I said to

The Daughter ot Snovvdon's Story 403

(( <

" ' VI.

"Mr. D'Arcy and 1,'' said Winifred, "went out of the house
at the back, walked across a roughly paved stable-yard, and
passed through a gate and entered a meadow. Then wc
walked along a stream, about as wide as one of our Welsli
brooks, but I found it to be a backwater connected with a
river, l^'or some time we neither of us spoke a word. He
seemed lost in thought, and my mind was busy with what I
intended to say to him, for I was fully determined to get
some light thrown upon the mystery.

"When we reached the river bank we turned towards the
left, and walked until we reached a weir, and there we sat
down upon a fallen willow tree, the inside of which was all
touchwood. Then he said :

'You are silent. Miss Wynne.'
'And you are silent,' I said.
" 'My silence is easily explained,' he said. T was waiting
to hear some remark fall from you as to these meadows and
the river, which you have seen so often.'

'Which I see now for the first time, you mean.'
'Miss Wynne,' he said, looking earnestly in my face,
'you and I have taken this walk together nearly every day
for months.'

'That,' I said, 'is — is quite impossible.'
'It is true,' he said. And then again we sat silent.
"Then I said to him with great firmness, 'Mr. D'Arcy,
I'm only a peasant girl, but I'm Welsh ; I have faith in you,
faith in your goodness and faith in your kindness to me ; but
I must insist upon knowing how I came here, and how you
and I were brought together.'

"He smiled and said, 'I was right in thinking that your
face expresses a good ^ea\ of what we call character. I
should have preferred waiting for a day or two before re-
lating all I have to tell in answer to what you ask, but as
you insist upon having it now, it would be ill-bred for me to
insist that you must wait. But before I begin, would it not
be better if you were to tell me something of what occurred
to yourself when you were taken ill at Raxton?'

" 'Then will your story begin where mine breaks off?' I
said.

" o

« <i

" <i

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404

Aylwin

" 'We shall see that,' he said, 'as soon as you have ended

vours.

<< <

Do yon know Raxton?' I said.

"At first he seemed to hesitate about his reply, and then
said :

" 'No, I do not;

"I then told him in as few words as I could our adven-
tures on the sands on the nipht of the landslip, and my
search for my father's body afterwards, until I suddenly
sank down in a fit. When I had finished Mr. D'Arcy was
silent, and was evidently lost in thoup^ht. At last he said :

" *My story, I perceive, cannot be^'^^in where yours breaks
ofif. I first became acquainted with you in the studio of a
famous painter named Wilderspin, one of the noblest-
minded and most admirable men now breathing, but a
great eccentric'

" 'Why, Mr. D'Arcy, I never was in a studio in my life
until to-day,' I said.

" 'You mean, Miss Wynne, that you were not consciously
there,' said he. 'But in that studio you certainly were, and
the artist, who reverenced you as a being from another
world, was painting your face in a beautiful picture. While
he was doing this you were taken seriously ill, and your life
was despaired of. It was then that I brought you into the
country, and here you have been living and benefiting by
the kind services of Mrs. Titwing for a long time.'

" 'And you know nothing of my history previously to see-
ing me in the London studio ?' I asked.

" 'All thit I could ever learn about that,' said he, in what
seemed to me a rather evasive tone, *I had to gather from
the incoherent and rambling talk of Wilderspin, a religious
enthusiast whose genius is very nearly akin to mania. He
was so struck by yoi? that he actually believed you to be not
a corporeal wom.'ivi at all ; he believed you had been sent
from the spirit world by his dead mother to enable him to
paint a great picture.'

Oh, I must see him, and make him tell me all,' I said.
Yes/ said he, 'but not yet.'

" </

(( t-^

"What Mr. D'Arcy told me," said Winnie, "affected me
so deeply that I remained silent for a long time. Then came
a thought which made me say:

" 'You. too, are a painter, Mr. D'Arcy?'

/e ended

;\nd then

r adven-
and my

suddenly

\rcy was

e said :

rs breaks

iidio of a
noblest-

g, but a

n my life

nsciously
xere, and
I another
e. While
your life
I into the

iting by

y to see-
in what
ler from
religious
mia. He
to be not
)een sent
e him to

I said.

scted me
len came

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 405

" 'Yes/ he said.

" 'During the months that I have been living here have
you used nic as your model?'

" 'No; l)ut that was not because I did not wish to do so.'

"Then lie suddenly looked in my face and said,

"'Is your family entirely Welsh. Miss Wynne?'

" 'Entirely,' I said. *P»ut why did you not use me as
your model. Mr. D'Arcy?'

"'Poor Wildcrspin believed you to be a spiritual body,'
he said ; 'I did not. I knew that you were a young lady in an
unconscious condition. To have painted you in such a con-
dition and without the possibility of getting your consent
would have been sacrilege, even if I had painted you as a
Madonna.'

"I could not speak, his words and tone were so tender.
He broke the silence by .saying:

" 'Miss Wynne, there is one thing in connection with you
that puzzles me very much. You speak of yourself as
though you were a kind of Welsh peasant girl, and yet your
conversation — well. I mustn't tell you what I think of that.'

"This made me laugh outright, for ladies who called on
Miss Dalrvmple used to make the same remark.

" 'Mr. D'Arcy,' I said, *vou arc harbouring the greatest
little imposter in the British Islands. I am the mere mock-
ing-bird of one of the most cultivated women living. My
true note is that of a simple Welsh bird.'

" 'A Welsh nightingale,' he said, with a smile, 'but who
was the original impostor?'
" 'Miss Dalrymple,* I said.

" 'Miss Dalrymple, the writer ! — why I knew her years
ago — before you were born.'

"Our talk had been so lively that we had not noticed the
passage of time, nor had we noticed that the clouds had
been gathering for a summer shower. Suddenly the rain
fell heavily; although we ran to the house, we were quite
wet by the time we got in.

"We found poor Mrs. Titwing in a great state of excite-
ment on account of the rain, and also because the dinner had
been waiting for nearly an hour. That scamper in the rain,
and the laughing and joking at our predicament, seemed to
bring us closer together than anytiiincr else could have done.
Mr. D'Arcy told Mrs. Titwing to take me to my room to

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406

Aylwin

change my dress for dinner, and he seemed quite dis-
appointed when I told him that I could eat no dinner, and
would like to retire to my room for the night. The fact
was that the events of that wonderful day had exhausted all
my power'- ; every nerve within me seemed crying out for
sleep.

"I went to my room, dismissed Mrs. Titwing, and went
to bed at once. But no sooner had I got into bed than I
began to perceive that, instead of sleep, a long wakeful
night was before me. Mr. D'Arcy's stor^ about finding
me in a London studio took entire possession of my mind.
How did I get there? Where had I been and what had been
my adventures before I got there? Why did the painter, in
whose studio Mr. D'Arcy found me, believe that I had been
supernaturally sent to him? I shuddered as a thousand
dreadful thoughts flowed into my mind. 'Mr. D'Arcy,' I
said to myself, 'must know more than he has told me.' Then,
of course, came thoughts about you. I wondered why you
had allowed me to drift away from you in this manner.
True, I was probably removed from Raxton immediately
after my illness, when you were very ill, as I knew, but then
you had recovered !"

VII.

When Winifred reached this point in her story, I said :

"And so you wondered wnat had become of me from your
last seeing me down to your waking up in Mr. D'Arcy's
house?"

"Yes, yes, Henry. Do tell me what you were doing all
that time."

As she said these words the whole tragedy of my life re-
turned to me in one moment, and yet in that moment I lived
over again every dreadful incident and every dreadful de-
tail. The spectacle on the srnds, the search for her in
North Wales, the meeting in the cottage, the frightful sight
as she leapt away from m.e on Snowdon, the heart-breaking
searcii for her among the mountains, the sound of her voice,
singing by the theatre portico in the rain, the search for her
in the hideous London streets, the scenes in the studios, the
snul-blastinff drama in Primrose Court — all came upon me

[uite dis-
iner, and
The fact
lusted all
2: out for

and went
^d than I
■ wakeful
t finding
my mind,
had been
ainter, in
had been
thousand
''Arcy/ I
e.' Then,
why you
manner,
nediately
but then

said:
rom your
D'Arcy's

doing all

y life re-
nt I lived
adful de-
r her in
tful sight
breaking
ler voice,
h for her
idios, the
upon me

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 407

'n such a succession of realities that the beautiful radiant
creature now talking to me seemed impossible except as a
figure in a dream. And she was asking me to tell her
what I had been doing during all these months of night-
mare. But I knew that I never could tell her, either now
or at any future time. I knew that to tell her would be to
kill her.

"Winnie," I said, "I will tell you all about myself, but I
must hear your story first. The faster you get on with that
the sooner you will hear what I have to tell."

"Then I will get on fast," said she. "After a while my
thoughts, as I tossed on my bed, turned from the past to
the future. What was the future that was lying before me ?
For months I had evidently been living on ihe charity of
Mr. D'Arcy. My only excuse for having done so was that
I was entirely unconscious of it ; but now that I did know
the relations between us I must o\ course end them at once.
But what was I to do? Whither was I to go? Besides
Miss Dalrymple, whose address I did not know, I had no
friends except Sinfi Lovell and the Gypsies and a few
Welsh farmers. To live upon my benefactor's generous
charity now that I was conscious of it was, I felt, impossible.

"I was penniless. I had not even money to pay my rail-
way fare to any part of England. There was only one thing
for me to do — write to you. When I rose in the morning
it was with the full determination to write to you at once.
I had been told by Mis. Titwing that Mr. D'Arcy always
breakfasted alone in a little ante-room adjoining his bed-
room, ana always breakfasted late. My breakfast, she said,
would be prepared in what she called the little green room.
And when I left my bedroom, dressed in a morning dress
that was carefully laid out for me, I found the housekeeper
moving about in the passages. She conducted me to the
little green room. On the walls were two looking-glasses
in old black oak frames, carved with knights at tilt and
angels' heads hovering above them. Each frame contained
two circular mirrors surrounded by painted designs, telling
the story of the Holy Grail. The room was furnished with
quaint sofas and chairs on which beautiful little old-fash-
ioned designs were painted. She told me that as I had not
named an hour for breakfasting I should have to wait about
twenty minutes.

"In one corner of the room was a rather large whatnot,

( '

4o8

Aylwin

!]- li-

on which lay one or two French novels in green and yellow
paper covers and a few daily and weekly newspapers, which
I went and turned over. Among them 1 was startled to find
a paper called the Kaxton Cazrttc. IJut I saw at once how
it got there, for written on the margin at the top of the
paper was the address, 'Dr. Mivart, Wimpole Street, Lon-
don.' Mr. D'Arcy had told rne that the gentleman whose
voice I heard behind the screen was the medical man who
attended to me during my illness, and it now suddenly
flashed upon my mind that at Raxton there was a Dr.
Mivart, though I had never seen him during my stay there.
These were, no doubt, one and the same person, and some
one from Raxton had posted the newspaper to the doctor's
house in London.

"I looked down the columns of the paper with a very
lively interest, and my eye was soon caught by a paragraph
encircled by a thick blue pencil mark. It gave from a paper
called the London Satirist what professed to be a long ac-
count of you, in which it was said that you were Vwhr, 'n a
bungalow in Wales with a Gypsy girl."

When Winifred said this I forgot my promise not to in-
terrupt her narrative, and exclaimed :

"And you believed this infamous libel, Winnie?"
"To say that I believed it as a simple statement of fact
would of course be wTong. I never doubted that you loved
me as a child."

"As a child ! Do you then think that I did not love you
that night on Raxton sands?"

"I did not doubt that you loved me then. But wealth, I
had been told, is so demoralising and I thought your never
coming forward to find me and protect me in my illness
might hrive something to do with inconstancy. Anyhow,
these thoughts combined with my dread of your mother to
prevent me writing you."

"Winnie, Winnie!" I said, "these theories of the so-
called advanced thinkets, wdiom your aunt taught you
to believe in — these ideas that love and wealth cannot
exist together, are prejudices as narrow and as blind as
those of "-^ opposite kind which have sapped the natures
of certain members of my own family."

"The sight of your dear sad face when I first saw it here
was proof enough of that," she said. "As your life was
said to be that of a wanderer, 1 did not care to write to

id yellow
rs, which
^d to find
)nce how
)p 'A the
let, Lon-
in whose
nan who
suddenly
s a Dr.
ay there,
nd some
doctor's

1 a very
aragraph
1 a paper
long ac-
^^•>\ 'n a

ot to in-

t of fact
ou loved

ove you

i^ealth, I
ir never
illness
uiyhoW;
Dther t )

the so-
ht you
cannot
lind as
natures

it here
ife was
-rite to

The Daughter of Snovvdon's Story 409

Raxton, and I did not know where to address you. What
I had read in the newspaper, I need not tell you, troubled
me greatly. I cried bitterly, and made but a poor breakfast.
After it was over ^Ir. D'Arcy entered the room, and shook
me warmly by the land. He saw that I had been crying,
and he stood silent and seemed to be asking himself the
cause. Drawing a chair towards me, and taking a seat, he
said :

" 'I fear you have not slept well, Miss Wynne.'

" 'Not very well,' I answered. Then, looking at him, I
said, *Mr. D'Arcy, I have something to say to you, and
♦^his is the moment for saying it.'

"He gave a startled look, as though he guessed what I
was going to say.

" *And I have something to say to yoii, Miss Wynne,'
he said, smiling, 'and this seems the proper time for saying
it. Up to the last few weeks a young gentleman from
Oxford has been acting as my secretary. He has now
left me, and I am seeking another. His duties, I nutst
say, have not been what would generally be called severe.
I write most of my own letters, though not all, and my
correspondence is far from beirg large. His chief duty has
been that of reading to me in the evening. For many years
my eyes have not been so strong as a painter's ought to
be, and the oculist whom I consulted told me that the
strain of the painter's work was quite as much as my eyes
ought to bear, and that I could not afTord much eyesight
for reading purposes. I am passionately fond of reading.
To be without the pleasure that books can aiiford me would
be to make me miserable, and I have looked upon my
secretary's duty of reading aloud to me as an important
one. If you would take his place you would be conferring
the greatest service upon me.'

" ^Mr. D'Arcy,' I said, T suspect you.'

"'Suspect me. Miss Wynne?'

'* 'I suspect that generous heart of yours. I suspect
you are merely inventing a post for me to fill, because you
pity me.'

" 'No, Miss Wynne; upon my honour this is not so. I
will not deny that if it were no*^ in your power to do me
the service that ^ ask of you, I should still feel tlie greatest
disappointment if you passed from under this roof. Your
scruples about living here as you lived during your illness

410 Aylwin

simply as my guest — I understand, but do not approve.
They show that you are not quite so free from the bondage
of custom as I should like every iriend of mine to be. The
tie of friendship is, in my judgment, the strongest of all
ties, stronger than that of blood, because it springs from
the natural kinship of soul to soul, and there is no reason
in the world why I should not offer you a home as a
friend, or why, if the circumstances of our lives were re-
versed, you should not offer me one. But in this case
it is the fact that the service I am asking you to render me
is greater than any service I can render you.'

"I was so deeply touched by his words and by his way
of speaking them, that my Mps trembled, and I could make
no reply.

" *It is a shame,' he said, *for me to talk about business,
so soon after your recovery. Let us leave the matter for
the moment, and come to me in the studio during the
morning, and let me show you the pictures I am painting,
and some of my choice things.'

"The morning wore on, and still I sat pondering over
the situation in which I founa myself. The servant came
and moved the breakfast things, and her furtive glances
at me showed that I was an object at once familiar and
strange to her. But very little attention did I pay to her,
in such a whirl of thoughts as I then was. The moment
that one course of action seemed to me the best, the very
opposite would occur to me as being the best. However,
I was determined to know from Mr. D'Arcy, and at once,
what was the state in which I was when I was brought to
this place, and what had been the course of my life during
my s^ay here. Mr. D'Arcy had told me that, for reasons
which he so touchingly alluded to, he had not used me
as a model. How, then, had my time been passed?
To question poor Mrs. Titwing would only be to
frighten her. I would ask Mr. D'Arcy for a full con-
fession.

"Mrs. Titwing came into the room. She began pulling
at the ribbon of her black silk apron as though she wanted
to speak and could not find the proper words. At last
she said :

" *I hope, miss, there have been no words between you
and Mr. D'Arcy?'

L approve,
c bondage
3 be. The
2^est of all
ings from
no reason
iome as a
3 were re-
this case
render me

y his way
Duld make

: business,
matter for
iiring the
I painting,

;rmg over
pnt came
e glances
niliar and
ay to her,

moment

the very
However,

at once,

rought to

fe during

r reasons

used me

passed ?
/ be to
full con-

n pulling
e wanted
At last

/een you

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 411

"'Words between mc and Mr. D'Arcy? What do yuu
mean?' I as':ed.

" *He seems very much upset, miss, about something.
He is not at his easel, but keeps walking about the studio,
and every now and then he asks where you arc. I'm sure
he used to dote on you when you were a child, miss.'

"'When I was a child?' I said, laughing. 'But I sec
what it is, I have been very neglectful. I promised to go
into the studio to see the pictures, and he is, of course,
impatient at my keeping him waiting. I will go to him
at once,* and I went.

"When I entered the studio he turned quickly round
and said :

" 'Well ?'

" 'You were so kind,' I said, 'as to inv'^2 me to see your
treasures.'

" 'To be sure,' he said. 'I thought you came to give
your decision.'

"He then showed me the curious divan upon which I
had rested the day before, and explained to me the meaning
of the carved designs."

VHI.

Winifred described the designs on the divan so vividly
that I could almost see them. But what interested me
was the painter, not his surroundings ; and she now seemed
to grow weary of talking about herself.

"Did he," I said, "did he say anything about — about
painters' models?"

"Yes," she continued, "Mr. D'Arcy took me to an easel
and showed me a picture. It was only the half-length of
a woman; but it was a tragedy rendered fully by the ex-
pression on one woman's face.

" 'I had no idea,' I said, 'that any picture — any picture
of a single face — could do such work as that. Was this
painted from a model?'

"Yes,' he said with a smile, which was evidently at my
ignorance of art. 'It was painted from life.'

"There were four other half-lengths in the room, all of
them very beautiful.

412

Aylwin

" 'Two of these,' he said, 'are copies, the originals have
been sold. The other two need still a few touches to make
them complete.'

" 'And they were all painted from life ?' I said.

" 'Yes,' he said. 'Why do you repeat that question?'

" 'Because,' I said, 'although they are all so wonderful
and so beautiful in colour, I can see a great difference be-
tween them — I can scarcely say what the difference is.
They are evidently all painted by the same artist, but
painted in different moods of the artist's mind.'

" 'Ah,' he said, 'I am much interested. Let me see you
classify them according to your view. There are, as you
see, two brunettes and two blondes.'

" 'Yes,' I said, 'between this grand brunette, to use your
own expression, holding a pomegranate in her hand and
the other brunette whose beautiful eyes are glistening and
laughing over the fruit she is holding up, there is the same
difference that there is between the blonde's face under
the apple blossoms and the other blonde's face of the figure
that is listening to music. In both faces the difference seems
to be that of the soul.'

" 'The two faces,' said he, 'in which you see what you call
soul are painted from two dear friends of mine — ladies of
high intelligence and great accomplishments, who occa-
sionally honour me by giving me sittings — the other two
are painted from two of the finest hired models to be found
in London.'

" 'Then,' I said, 'an artist's success depends a great deal
upon his model ? I had no idea of such a thing.'

" 'It dc3s indeed,' he said. 'Such success as I have won
since my great loss is very largely owing to those two
ladies, one so grand and thi other so sweet, whom you are
admiring.'

"The way in which he spoke the words 'since my great
loss' almost brought tears into my eyes. He then went
round the room, and explained in a delightful way the
various pictures and objects of interest. I felt that I was
preventing him from working, and told him so.

" 'You are very thoughtful/ iie said, 'but I can only paint
when I feel the impulse within me, and to-day I am lazy.
But while you go and get your luncheon — I do not lunch
myself — I must try to do something. You must have many
matters of your own that you would like to attend to. Will

ginals have
les to make

stion ?'
> wonderful
fference be-
iference is.
artist, but

me see you
are, as you

to use your
r hand and
stening and
is the same
face under
>f the figure
rence seems

hat you call

I — ladies of

who occa-

other two

to be found

: great deal

have won

those two

Dm you are

! my great

then went

il way the

that I was

only paint

I am lazy.

not lunch

have many

dto. Will

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 413

you return to the studio about five o'clock, and let me have
your company in another walk?'

"Until five o'clock I was quite alon*^, and wandered
about the house and garden trying my memory as to
whether I could recall something, but in vain. At any
other time than this I should no doubt have found the
old house a very fascinating one ; but not for two minutes
together could my mind dwell upon anything but the
amazing situation in which I found myself. The house
was, I saw, built of grey stone, and as it had seven gables
it suggested to me Nathaniel Hawthorne's famous story,
of which my aunt was so fond. Inside I found every room
to be more or lesr> interesting. But what attracted me
most, I think, was a series of large attics in which was a
number of enormous oak beams supporting the antique
roof. With the sunlight pouring through the windows and
illuminating almost every corner, the place seemed cheerful
enough, but I could not help thinking how ghostly it must
look on a moonlight night.

"While the thought was in my mind, a strange sensation
came upon me. I seemed to hear a moan ; it came through
the door of the large attic adjoining the one in which I
stood, and then I heard a voice that seemed familiar to me,
and yet I could not recall it. It was repeating in a loud,
agonised tone the words of that curse written on the parch-
ment scroll which I picked up on Raxton sands. I was so as-
tonished that for a long time I could think of nothing else.

IX.

"At five o'clock I was going towards the studio to keep my
appointment when I met Mr. D'Arcy in his broad-brimmed
felt hat, ready and waiting for me to take the proposed walk
with him.

"Oh, what a lovely afternoon it was ! A Welsh afternoon
could not have been lovelier. In fact it carried my mind
back here. The sun, shining on the buttercups and the
grey-tufted standing grass, made the meadows look as
though covered with a tapestry that shifted from grey to

414

Aylwin

lavender, ami then fruiii lavender to gold — as the soft breeze
moved over it. And many of the birds were still in full song;
and brilliant as was the music of the skylarks, the black-
birds and thrushes were so numerous that the music falling
from the sky seemed caught and swallowed up by the music
rising from the hedgerows and trees.

"I lingered at one of the gates through which we passed
to enjoy the beauty undisturbed by the motion of my own
body.

" *! have often wished,' Mr. D'Arcy said, 'that I had a
tithe of your passion for Nature, and all your knowledge
of Nature. To have been born in London and to have
passed one's youth there is a ^reat loss. Nature has to be
learnt, as art has to be learnt, in earliest youth.'

" 'What makes you know that my chief passion is love of
Nature?' I asked.

** 'It was,' he said, 'the one thing you showed during your
illness — during your unconscious condition.'

" 'And yet I remember nothing of that time,' I said. 'This
gives me an opportunity of asking you something — an op-
portunity which I had determined to make for myself be-
fore another day went by.'

" 'And what is that?' he said; in a tone that betrayed some
uneasiness.

" 'You have told me how I came here. I now want you
to tell me, too, what was my condition when I came and
what was my course of life during all this long period. How
did the time pass? What did I do? I remember nothing.'

" 'I am glad you are asking me these questions,' he said,
'for I believe that the more fully and more exactly I answer
them, the better for you and the better for me. Victor
Hugo, in one of his romances, speaks of the pensive som-
nambulism of the animals. "Somnambulism," sometimes
pensive and sometimes playful, is the very phrase I should
use in characterising your condition when you first came
here and down to your recovery from that strange illness.
But this somnambulism would every now and then change
and pass into a consciousness which I can only compare
with that of a child. But no child that I have ever seen
was so bewitchingly child-like as you were. It was this
that made your presence such a priceless boon to me.'

" 'Priceless boon, Mr. D'Arcy !' I said. 'How could such
a being as you describe be a priceless boon to any one?'

soft breeze
1 full sonpf ;

the black-
usic falling
y the music

we passed
of my own

at I had a
knowledge
id to have
e has to be

n is love of

uring your

&aid. 'This
ig — an op-
myself be-

ayed some

ir want you
came and
riod. How
r nothing.'
s/ he said,
y I answer
le. Victor
isive som-
sometimes
e I should
first came
ge illness,
en change

compare

ever seen

t was this

me.*

:ould such
f one?'

The Daughter of Siiowdon's Story 415

*' 'i will tell you,' he replied. *i'!vcn before that great sor-
row which has made me the loneliest man upon the earth —
even in the days when my animal spirits wore considered at
times almost boisterous, 1 was always at intervals subject
to periods of great depression, or rather, 1 should say, to
periods of ennui. I must either be painting or reading or
writing. I had not the precious faculty of being able on oc-
casions to sit and let the rich waters of life fiow over me.
I would yearn for amusement, and search in vain for some
object to amuse me. When you first came 1 was deeply
interested in so extraordinary a case as yours ; and after
a while, when the acuteness of my curiosity and the
poignancy of my sympathy for you had abated, you be-
came to me a joy, as a child is a joy in the eyes of its
parents.'

" 'Then your interest in me,' I said with a smile, 'was that
which you would feel towards a puppy or a kitten.'

" 'I perceive that you have a turn for satire,' he said,
laughing. *I will not deny that I have an extraordinarily
strong passion for watching the movements of animals. I
have, to the sorrow of my neighbours, filled my garden in
London with all kinds of purchases from Jamrach's. But
from the moment that I knew you, who combined the fas-
cination of a fawn and a child with that of a .^ Iph or a fairy,
my poor little menagerie was neglected, and w lat became of
its members I scarcely know. I suppose I am very uncompli-
mentary to you, but you would have the truth. The mo-
ment that I felt myself threatened by the fiend Ennui I used
to tell Mrs. Titwing, who was in the habit of calling you her
baby, to bring you into the studio, and at once the fiend
fled. At last I grew so attached to you that your presence
was a positive necessity of my life. Unless I knew that you
were in the studio I could not paint. It was necessary for
me at intervals to look across the room at that divan and
see you there amusing yourself — playing with yourself, so
to speak, sometimes like a kitten, sometimes like a child. I
would not have parted with you for the world.'

"He did not say he would not now part with me for the
world, Henry, and I thought I understood the meaning of
that expression of disappointment which I had observed in
his eyes when I first saw them looking into mine. I thought
I understood this extraordinary man — so unlike all others ;
I thought I knew why my eyes lost the charm he was now

4i6

Aylwin

so eloquently describing lo me tlie moment that they be-
came lighted with what he called self-consciousness.

"After a while I said, 'But as I was in such an uncon-
scious state as you describe, how could you possibly know
that a speciality of mine is a love of Nature?'

" *It was only when you were out in the open air that the
condition which I have compared to somnambulism seemed
at times to disappear. Then your consciousness seemed to
spring up for a moment and to take heed of what was pass-
ing around you. You would sometimes scamper through
the meadows, pluck the wild flowers and weave them into
wreaths round your head, or stand listening to the birds, or
hold out your hands as if to embrace the sunny wind. One
day when a friend of mine, a great angler, who comes here,
was going down to the river to fish, you showed the greatest
interest in what was going on. The fishing tackle seemed
so familiar to you that my friend put a fishing rod into your
hand and you went with him to the river. I do not myself
care for angling, and I was at the time very busy with a
picture, but I could not resist the temptation to follow you.
You skipped into the punt with the greatest glee, baited
your hook, adjusted your float on the line, cast it into the
water, and fished with such skill that you caught two fish
to my friend's one. Observing all these things, I came to
the conclusion that you had lived much in the open air, oud
other incidents made me know that you were a great lover
of Nature.'

" 'And you,' I said, 'must also be a lover of Nature, or
you could not find such delight in watching animals.'

" *No,' he said, 'the interest I take in animals has nothing
vvhatever to do with love of Nature or study of Nature.
They interest me by that unconsciousness of grace that
makes them such a contrast to man.'

"We then went into the house. Our talk during our
ramble in the fields seemed to remove effectually all awk-
wardness and restraint between us.

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 417

at they bc-
isness.

an uncon-
)Sibly know

air that the
ism seemed
3 seemed to
It was pass-
)er through
I them into
he birds, or
wind. One
comes here,
the greatest
:kle seemed
id into your
I not myself
)usy with a
follow you.
G^lee, baited
; it into the
ht two fish
, I came to
)en air, oud
great lover

Nature, or
mals.'

las nothing
of Nature,
grace that

during our
ly all awk-

"That day," said Winnie, "a determination which had been
caused by many a reflection durinp^ the last few hours in-
duced me at dinner to lead the conversation to the subject
of pictures and models, and in a few minutes Mr. D'Arcy
launched out in an eloquent discourse upon a subject which
was so new to me and so familiar to him.

** 'You were saying this morning, Mr. D'Arcy,' I said,
'that you were indebted — I think you said you were spe-
cially indebted — to your models for your success as a
painter.'

" 'Yes,* he said. 'For many years a strange and unex-
ampled good fortune has attended me in regard to models.
"Mock modesty" has never been a vice of mine ; I say what
I simply mean when I tell you that without this good luck
in regard to my models I could n°ver have achieved such a
position as is now mine. But why do you keep harping
upon this subject? Why do you take all this interest in
painters and their models?'

" 'Because I want to be your model,' I said.

"He turned round upon me with an expression of the
greatest delight on his face.

" 'My dear Miss Wynne,' he said, 'I should never have
dared to ask you to sit to me. I had told you about your
sitting in an unconscious state to Wilderspin, and I saw
how troubled and perplexed you were; and now that you
are yourself I could not ask you to sit to me. Three or
four pictures painted from you as you now are would not
clash with Wilderspin's pictures, the expression being so
entirely different, and they would make my fortune in every
way.'

" 'Why, what can you mean, Mr. D'Arcy?' I exclaimed in
amazement.

" 'I mean,' he said, 'that I have never yet had the chance
of expressing in art a subtle and indescribable quality to be
found in some few faces among your countrywomen — a
quality which can only be described in the word Cymric.
Even now, while I am talking to you, the subject for a pic-
ture has come to mc — "The Spirit of Snowdon." '

4i8

Aylwin

"I clapped my hands with delight.

" 'It would be a complete departure from my present
style," he said, "of which the fickle public may very soon
begin to weary. But I fear you are doing this kindness to
me — I fear you are offering to sit — because of the services
it has been my privilege to render you. If you knew the
service your company has rendered me, you would realise
how immeasurably I have been overpaid.'

" 'Mr. D'Arcy,' I said, 'I have every reason to do what I
want to do through gratitude, but the woman does not live
who would not feel herself exalted by being turned to such
use by your genius. The woman who sits as a model for a
great painter in an immortal picture becomes in a way a
priestess herself of Art. Her mission is only less than the
painter's in nobility. And as to sitting for "The Spirit of
Snowdon," what girl having within her breast the Cymric
passion which nothing can quench would not feel that to do
GO was almost presumption? I hope you will let me sit to
you as soon as you can.* "

"And so you sat for the Spirit of Snowdon, Winnie," I
said.

"Yes," said Winnie ; "I gave him several 5 <^s."

"Ah, I can imagine the glorious result," x said.

"Can you?" said Winnie. "The glorious result was a
failure, as Mr. D'Arcy himself was the first to admit."

"What!" I exclaimed, "he fail,ed with a daughter of
Snowdon for model?"

"To paint 'The Spirit of Snowdon' a painter, it seems,
wants something more than a daughter of Snowdon for
model," said Winnie. "He needs sympathy — full and un-
divided sympathy — with the race to whom Snowdon has
been given. The picture was a failure and was soon
abandoned."

XI.

Either because she was wearied of talking about herself
and her adventures, or because she was now approaching
some point in her story which it was not pleasing to dwell
upon, Winnie again proposed that her narrative should end
here, at least for a time, and urged me to tell her what had

Tiy present
very soon
kindness to
he services
.1 knew the
Duld reahse

» do what I
DCS not Uve
led to such
nodel for a
in a way a
ss than the
le Spirit of
the Cymric
1 that to do
It me sit to

Winnie," I

iid.

suit was a

dmit."

aughter of

it seems,

owdon for

ill and un-

Dwdon has

was soon

out herself
)proaching
[g to dwell
should end
r what had

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 419

befallen myself since we had parted at the cottage door at
Raxton. Even had it been possible for me to talk about
myself without touching upon some dangerous incident or
another, my impatience to get at the mystery of mysteries
in connection witli her and her rescue from Primrose Court
was so great that I could only implore her to tell me what
had occurred down to her leaving Ilurstcotc Manor, and
also what had been the cause of her leaving.

"Well," said Winnie, "I am now going to tell you of an
extraordinary thing that happened. C*nc fine night the
moon was so brilliant tiiat after I quitted Mr, D'Arcy I
stole out of the side door into the garden, a favourite place
of mine, for old English flowers were mixed with apple
trees and pear trees. I was strolling about the garden,
thinking over a thousand things connected with you, and
myself, and Mr. D'Arcy, when I saw stooping over a flower
bed the figure of a tall woman. I could scarcely believe
my eyes, for I had all the while supposed that, excepting
Mr. D'Arcy, myself, and Mrs. Titwing, the servants were
the only occupants of the place. I turned away, and walked
silently through the h'tle wicket into what is called the
home close. As I pcjiidered over the incident, I recalled
certain things which singly had produced no effect on my
mind, but which now fitted in with each other, and seemed
to open up vistas of mystery and suspicion. Mysterious
looks and gestures on the faces of the servants pointed to
there being some secret that was to be kept from me. I
had not given much heed to these things, but now I could
not help connecting them with the appearance of the tall
woman in the garden.

"Some guests arrived next day, and when I pleaded
headache Mr. D'Arcy said, 'Perhaps you would rather keep
to your own room to-day.'

"I told him I should, and I spent the day alone — spent
it mainly in thinking about the tall woman. In the evening
I went into the garden, and remained there for a long time,
but no tall woman made her appearance.

"I passed out through the wicket into the home close,
and as I walked about in the grass, under the elms that
sprang up from the tall hedge, I thought and thought over
what I had seen, but could come to no explanation. I was
standing under a tree, in the shadow which its branches

420

Aylwin

.ifi^ r

If:

made, when I became suddenly conscious that the tall
woman was close to me. I turned round, and stood face to
face with Sinfi Lovell. The sight of a spectre could not
have startled me more, but the effect of my appearance
upon her was greater still. Her face took an expression
that seemed to curdle my blood, and f^he shrieked, 'Father!
the curse! Let his children be vagabonds and beg their
bread; let them seek it also out of desolate places.' And
the:: she ran towards the house.

"In a few minutes Mr. D'Arcy came out into the field
without his hat, and evidently much agitated.

" 'Miss Wynne,' he said, 'I fear you must have been half
frightened to death. Never was there such an unlucky
contretemps.'

" 'But why is Sinfi Lovell here?' I said, 'and why was I
not told she was here?'

" 'Sinfi is an old friend of mine,' he said. 'I have been
in the habit of using her as a model for pictures. She came
here to sit to rne, when she was taken ill. She is subject to
fits, as you have seen. The doctor believed that they were
over and would not recur, and I had determined that to-
morrow I would bring you together.'

"I made no reply, but walked silently by his side across
the field to the little wicket. The confidence I had reposed
in Mr. D'Arcy had been like the confidence a child reposes
in its father.

" 'Miss Wynne,' he said, in a voice full of emotion, *I feel
that an unlucky incident has come between us, and yet if
I ever did anything for your good, it was when I decided
to postpone revealing the fact that Sinfi Lovell was under
this roof until her cure was so complete and decisive that
you could never by any chance receive the shock that you
have now received.'

'T felt that my resentment was melting in the music of his
vvords.

" 'What caused the fits?' I said. 'She talked about being
under a curse. What can it mean ?'

" 'That,' he said, 'is too long a story for me to tell you
now.'

" T know,' said I, 'that some time ago the tomb of Mr.
Aylwin's father was violated by some undiscovered mis-
creant, and I know that the words Sinfi uttered just now are
the words of a curse wriiten by the dead man on a piece of

hat the tall
stood face to
e could not
appearance
1 expression
:ed, 'Father!
id beg their
laces/ And

ito the field

ve been half
an unlucky

[ why was I

I have been
. She came
is subject to
It they were
tied that to-
side across
lad reposed
hild reposes

)tion, *I feel
and yet if

n I decided
was under

ecisive that

ck that you

music of his

ibout being

to tell you

Dmb of Mr.
)vered niis-
ust now are
1 a piece of

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 421

parchment, and stolen with a jewel from his tomb. I have
seen the parchment itself, and I know the words well. Her
father, Panuel Lovell, is as innocent of the crime of sacri-
lege as my poor father was. What could have made her
suppose that she had inherited the curse from her father?'

*' 'I have no explanation to ofTer,' he said. 'As you know
so much of the matter and I know so little, I am inclined
to ask you for some explanation of the puzzle.'

"I thought over the matter for a minute, and then I said
to him, 'Sinfi Lovell knows Raxton as well as Snowdon,
and must have been very familiar with the crime. I can
only suppose that she has brooded so long over the enor-
mity of the offence and the appalling words of the curse
that she has actually come at last to believe that poor, sim-
ple-minded Panuel Lovell is the offender, and that she, as
his child, has inherited the curse.'

" *A most admirable solution of the mystery,' he said, his
face beaming with delight."

XIL

When Winnie got to this point she said, "Yes, Henry, poor
Sinfi seems in some unaccountable way to have learnt all
about that piece of parchment and the curse written upon
it. She has been under the extraordinary delusion that her
father, poor Panuel Lovell, was the violator of the tomb,
and that she has inherited the curse."

"Good God, Winnie !" I exclaimed ; and when I recalled
what I had seen of Sinfi in the cottage, T was racked with
perplexity, pity and wonder. What could it "nean?

"Yes," said Winifred, "she has been possessed by this
astounding delusion, and it used to bring on fits which were
appalling to witness. They are passed now, however."

"Is she recovered now?"

"Mr. D'Arcy," said Winnie, "assured nic that, in the
opinion of the doctor, the delusion would not be perma-
nent, but that Sinfi would soon be entirely restored to
health. While Mr. D'Arcy and I were talking about her
Sinfi came through the wicket again. Rushing up to me
and seizing my hand, she said :

^■\- 'A

422 Ay 1 win

" 'Oh, Winnie, how I must have skeared you ! I dare
say Mr. D'Arcy has told you that I've been subject to fits
o' late. It as comin' on you suddint as I did under the
tree that brought it on. I wouldn't let Mr. D'Arcy tell you
I wur here until I wur quite sure I should have no more on
'em, but the doctor said this very day that I wur now quite
well.'

"My mind ran all night long upon the mystery of Sinfi
Lovell. Mr. D'Arcy's explanation of her appearance at
Hurstcote Manor was certainly clear enough, but some-
how its very clearness aroused suspicion — no, I will not
say suspicion — misgivings. If he had been able, while he
seemed so frank and open, to keep away from me a secret — ■
I mean the secret of Sinfi Lovell's being concealed in the
house — what secrets might he not be concealing from me
about my own mystery? Did he not know everything that
occurred during that period which was a blank in my mind,
the period from my sinking down on the sands to my wak-
ing up in his house ?

"From the very first, indeed, a feeling of mystery had
haunted me. I had often pondered over every circum-
stance that attended my waking into life, but that incident
which was the most firmly fixed in my mind was the sight
of the feet of a tall woman whose body was hid by the
screen between my couch and the other one. When I
asked Mr. D'Arcy about this, he did not say in so many
words that I was suffering from a delusion about those feet,
but he talked about the illusion which generally accom-
panied a recovery from such illnesses as mine. Now of
course I felt sure that Sinfi was the person I had seen on
the couch. But why was she there?

"I did not sec Mr. D'Arcy until the afternoon after the
guests had left, for in order to avoid seeing him and them,
I took a long strcll by the river and then got into the punt.
I had scarcely done so when Sinfi appeared on the bank
and hailed me. I took her into the punt. She was so en-
tirely herself that I found it difficult to believe in the start-
ling spectacle of the previous evening, although her expres-
sion was careworn, and she certainly looked a little paler
than she used to look when she and I and Rhona Boswell
were such great friends ; her splendid beauty and bearing
were as striking as ever, I thought. I was expecting every
minute that she would say somciliing about what occurred

u! I dare
DJect to fits
L under the
xy tell you
10 more on
: now quite

}ry of Sinfi
)earance at
but sonie-
I will not
e, while he
£ a secret —
laled in the
\g from me
ything that
n my mind,
to my wak-

lystery had
ry circum-
lat incident
IS the sight
hid by the
When I
n so many
those feet,
illy accom-
Now of
ad seen on

m after the
and them,

the punt,
n the bank
was so en-

1 the start-
her expres-

little paler
na Boswcll
nd bearing
cting every
It occurred

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 423

under the elm tree in the home close. But she did not
allude to it, and therefore I did not. We spent the entire
afternoon in reminiscences of Carnarvonshire. When she
told me that she knew you and that you had been there
together, and when she told me the cause of your being
there, and told me of your search for me, and all the dis-
tress that came to you on my account, my longing to see
you was like a fever.

"But vivid as were the pictiues that Sinfi gave me of your
search for me, I could not piece them together in a plain
tale. I tried to do so; it was impossible. What had hap-
pened to me after I had become unconscious on the sands
in that unaccountable way — why I was found in Wales —
how I could possibly have got there without knowing about
it — what had led to my being discovered by Mr D'Arcy —
discovered in London, above all places, and in a painter's
studio — these questions were with me night and day, and
Sinfi was entirely unable to tell me anything about the
matter, unless, as I sometimes half-thought, she was con-
cealing something from me."

"How could you have suspicions of poor Sinfi?" I said,
for I was becoming alarmed at the way in which these in-
quiries were absorbing Winnie's mind.

"It is, I know, Henry, a peculiarity of my nature to be
extremely confiding until I have once been deceived, and
then to be just as suspii lous. Kind as Mr. D'Arcy had been
to me, I began to feel restless in his haven of refuge. I
think that he perceived it, for I often found his eyes fixed
upon me with a somewhat inquiring and anxious ex-
pression in them. I felt that I must leave him and
go out into the world and take my place in the battle of
life."

"But, Winnie," I said, "you don't say that you intended
to come to me. Battle of life, indeed ! Where should Win-
nie stand in that battle except by the side of Henry? You
knew nov,' where to find me. Sinfi, of course, told you that
I was in Wales. And you did not even write to me ! What
can it mean?"

"Why, Henry, don't you know what it means? Don't
you know that the newspapers were full of long para-
graphs about the heir of the AyUvins having left his famous
bungalow and gone to Japan? Why, it was actually copied

424 Aylwin

into the little penny weekly thing that Mrs. Titwing takes
in, and it was there that I read it."

''This shows the folly of ignoring the papers," I said. "I
did undoubtedly say in some letters to friends that I pro-
posed going to Japan; but my loss of you, my grief, my
misery, paralysed every faculty of mine. My strength of
purpose was all gone. I delayed and delayed starting, and
never left Wales at all, as you see."

"Two things," continued Winnie, ''prevented my leav-
ing Hurstcote — my promise to Mr. D'Arcy to sit to him
for his picture Zenelophon, and the prosaic fact that I had
not money in my pocket to travel with ; for it was part of
the delicate method of Mr. D'Arcy to furnish me with
everything money could buy, but to give me no money.
His extravagent expenditure upon me in the way of dress,
trinkets, and every kind of luxury that could be placed in
my room by Mrs. Titwing appalled me. Mrs. Titwing's
own bearing, when I spoke to her about them, would have
made one almost suppose that they grew there like mush-
rooms ; and if I mentioned them to Mr. D'Arcy he would
tell me that Mrs. Titwing was answerable for all that; he
knew nothing about such matters.

"What I should in the end have done as to leaving Hurst-
cote or remaining there I don't know ; but after a while
something occurred to remove my difficulties. One morn-
ing, when I was giving Mr. D'Arcy a long sitting for his
picture, a Gypsy friend of Sinfi's, belonging to a family of
Lees encamped two or three miles off, called to see her. It
was a man, Sinfi told me, whom I did not know, and he
had gone away without my seeing him.

"In the afternoon, when Sinfi and I were in the punt fish-
ing together, I could not help noticing that she was much
absorbed in thought.

" 'This 'ere fishin' brings back old Wales, don't it?' she
said.

" 'Yes,' I said, 'and I should love to see the old places
again.'

" 'You would?' she said ; and her excitement was so great
that she dropped her fishing-rod in the river. 'Jake Lee
has been tellin' me that our people are there, all camped in
the old place by Bettws y Coed. I told him to write to my
daddy — Jake can write — and tell him that I'm goin' to see
him.'

twing takes

" I said. "I
that I pro-
y grief, my
strength of
tarting, and

id my leav-
) sit to him
t that I had
was part of
ih me with
no money,
^ay of dress,
DC placed in
s. Titwing's
would have
: like mush-
:y he would
all that; he

ving Hurst-

fter a while
One morn-

;ting for his
a family of
see her. It

ow, and he

le punt fish-
e was much

on't it?' she

I old places

vas so great
'Jake Lee
I camped in
write to my
goin' to see

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 425

" 'But you already knew they were there, Sinfi; you told
me. What makes you so suddenly want to go?'

*' That's nuther here nor there. I do want to go. Why
can't you go with nie?'

" 'I should much like it,' I said, 'but it's impossible.'

" 'Why? You can come back to Mr. D'Arcy again.'

" 'But, Sinfi,' I said, 'how are we to travel without
money? I have not a copper.'

*"Ah, but I've got gold.balanscrs about me, and they's
better nor copper.'

" 'Dear Sinfi !' I said, 'I'd rather borrow of you than any
one in the world.'

" 'Borrow !' said she — 'all right ! Now we shall have to
speak to Mr. D'Arcy about it. It'll be like drawin' one o'
his teeth partin' with you.'

"When I next saw Mr. D'Arcy I found that Sinfi had al-
ready spoken to him about our project. He seemed very
reluctant for me to leave him, although I promised him that
I would return.

" 'It is a strange fancy of Sinfi's, Miss Wynne,' said he,
'and a very disconcerting one to me ; but I feel that it must
be yielded to. Whatever can be done to serve or even
gratify Sinfi Lovell, it is my duty and yours to do.'

"Mr. D'Arcy always spoke of Sinfi in this way. She
seems to have done something of a peculiarly noble kind
for him and for me too, but what it is I have tried in vain to
discover.

"And a few days after this we started for Wales.

"Oh, Henry, I wonder whether any one who is not
Welsh-born can understand my delight as we passed along
the railway at nightfall and I first felt upon my cheek the
soft rich breath of the Welsh meadows, smelling partly of
the beloved land and partly of the beloved sea. 'Yr Hen
Wlad, yr Hen Gartref!' I murmured when at Prestatyn I
heard the first Welsh word and saw the first white-washed
Welsh cottage. From head to foot I became a Welsh girl
again. The loveliness of Hurstcote Manor seemed a dull,
grey, far-away house in a dream. But if I had known that
I should also find you, my dear! If I had dreamed that I
should find Henry !"

And then silence alone would satisfy her. And Snow-
don was speaking to us both.

426

Aylwin

I i

XIII.

And what about Sinfi Lovell? In those supreme moments
of bliss dtd Winifred and I think much about Sinfi ? Alas,
that love and happiness should be so selfish !

When at last the sound of Sinfi's crwth and song came
from some spot a good way up the rugged path leading to
the summit, it quite startled us.

'That's Sinfi's signal," said Winnie ; "that is the way we
used to call each other when we were children. She used
to sing one verse of a Snowdon song, and I used to answer
it with another. Upon my word, Henry, I had forgotten all
about her. What a shame ! We have not seen each other
since we r::rted yesterday at the camp."

And she sprang up to go.

"No, don't leave mc," I said ; "wait till she comes to us.
She's sure to come quite soon enorgh. Depend upon it she
is eaj:>er to see how her coup de theatre has prospered."

"I must really go to her," said Winifred ; "ever since we
left Hurstcote I have fallen in with her wishes in every-
thing."

"But why?"

"Because I am sure from Mr. D'Arcy's words that she
has rendered me some great service, though what it is I
can't guess in the least."

"But what are really the plans of the day r' this impor-
tant Gypsy?"

"There again I can't guess in the least," said Winifred.
"Probably the walk to the top and then down to Llanberis,
and then on to Carnarvon, is really to take place, as origi-
nally arranged — only with the slight addition that some one
is to join us. I shall soon be back, either alone or with
Sinfi, and then we shall know."

She ran up the path. Against her wish I followed her for
a time. She moved towards the same dangerous ledge of
rock where I had last seen her on that day before she
vanished in the mist.

I cried out as I followed her, "Winnie, for God's sake
don't run that danger!"

me moments
sinfi ? Alas,

1 song came
h leading to

i the way we
1. She used
ed to answer
forgotten all
n each other

comes to us.
d upon it she
spered."
ver since we
es in every-

rds that she
what it is I

this impor-

Id Winifred.
Llanberis,
:e, as origi-
lat some one
)ne or with

The Daughter of Snowdon's Story 427

"No d?;igor at all," she cried. "I know every rock as
well as you know every boulder of Raxton Cliffs."

I watched her poising herself on the ledge ; it made me
dizzy. Her confidence, however, was so great that I began
to feel she was safe ; and after she had passed out of sight
I returned to the llyn where we had breakfasted.

Sinfi's music ceased, but Winifred did not return. I sat
down on the rock and tried to think, but soon found that
the feat was impossible. The turbulent waves of my emo-
tion seemed to have washed my brain clear of all thoughts.
The mystery in connection with Sinfi was now as great as
the mystery connected with the rescue of Winifred from
the mattress in Primrose Court. So numbed was my brain
that I at last pinched myself to make sure that I was awake.
In doing this I seemed to feel in one of my coat pockets a
hard substance. Putting my hand into the pocket, I felt
the sharp corner of a letter pricking between a finger and
its nail. The acute pain assured me that I was awake. I
pulled out the letter. It was the one that the servant at
the bungalow had given me in the early morning when I
called to get my bath. I read the address, which was in a
handwriting I did not know : —

"Henry Aylwin, Esq.,

"Carnarvon, North Wales."

The Carnarvon postmark and the words written on the
envelope, "Try Capel Curig," showed the cause of the de-
lay in the letter's reaching me. In the left-hand corner of
the envelope were written the words "Very urgent. Please
forward immediately." I opened it, and found it to be a
letter of great length. I looked at the end and gave a start,
exclaiming, "D'Arcy!"

Iwed her for

^is ledge of

before she

ICod's sake

XVI.

D'Arcy's Letter

i ■':

[

XVI D'ARCY'S LETTER

This is how the letter ran: —

HuRSTcoTE Manor.

My DEAR Aylvvin,

I have just learned by accident that you are some-
where in Wales. I had gathered from paragraphs in the
newspapers about you that you were in Japan, or in some
other part of the East.

Miss Wynne and Sinfi Lovell are at this moment in
W^ales, and I write at once to furnish you with some facts
in connection with Miss Wynne which it is important for
you to know before you meet her. I can imagine your
amazement at learning that she you have lost so long has
been staying here as my guest. I will tell you all without
more preamble.

One day, some little time after I parted from you in the
streets of London, I chanced to go into Wilderspin's studio,
when I found him in great distress. He told me that the
beautiful model who had sat for his picture "Faith and
Love" had suddenly died. The mother of the girl had on
the previous day been in and told him that her daughter
had died in one of the fits to which at intervals she had
been subject.

Wilderspin, in his eccentric way, had always declared
that the model was not the woman's daughter. He did not
think her, as I did, to have been kidnapped ; he believed
her to be not a creature of flesh and blood at all, but a
spiritual body sent from heaven by his mother in order
that he might use her to paint as a model. As to the woman
Gudgeon, who laid claim to be her mother, he thought she
was suffering from a delusion — a beneficent delusion — in
supposing the model to be her daughter. And now he
thought that this beautiful phantom from the spirit world
had been recalled because his picture was complete. When

I If

432 Aylwin

I entered the studio lie was just starling for the second
time, as he told me, to the woman's house, in the belief that
the body of the girl which he had seen lying on a mattress
was a delusion — a spiritual body, and must by this tin^e
have vanished.

I had reasons for wishing to prevent his gomg there and
being again brought into contact with the woman before
I saw her myself. From my first seeing the woman and
the model, I had found it impossible to believe that there
could be any blood relationship, between them, for the
girl's frame from head to foot was as delicate as the wom-
an's frame from head to foot was coarse and vulgar.

Naturally, therefore, it occurred to me that this was an
excellent opportunity to find out the truth of the matter.
I determined to go and bully the impudent hag into a con-
fession ; but of course Wilderspin was the last man I should
choose to accompany me on such a mission. Your rela-
tive, Cyril Aylwin, was, as I believed, on the Continent, ex-
pecting Wilderspin to join him there, or I might have taken
him with me.

I have always had great influence over Wilderspin, and
I easily persuaded him to remain in the studio while I went
myself to the woman's address, which he gave me. I knew
that if the model were really dead she would have to be
buried by the parish at a pauper funeral, that is to say, low-
ered into a deep y't with other paupers. It was painful to
me to think of tLio, and I determined to get her buried
myself. So I took a hansom and drove to the squalid court
in the neighbourhood of Holborn, where the woman lived.

On reaching the house, I found the door open. Wilder-
spin had described to me the room occup.'ed by Mrs. Gud-
geon, so I went at once upstairs. I found the model upon
a mattress, her features horribly contorted, lying in the
same clothes apparently in which she had fallen when
seized.

In an armchair in the middle of the room was Mrs. Gud-
geon, in a drunken sleep so profound that I could not have
roused her had I tried. While I stood looking at the girl,
something in the appearance of her flesh — its freshness of
hue — made me suspect that she was still alive, and that she
was only suffering from a seizure of a more acute kind
than any the woman had yet seen. As I stood looking at
these two it occurred to me that should the model recover

D'Arcy's Letter

433

the second
c belief that
1 a mattress
)y this tir^e

\g there and
Dman before
v'oman and
ft that there
icm, for the
as the wom-
nl^ar.

t this was an
)f the matter,
ig into a con-
man I should
Your rela-
::ontinent, ex-
rht have taken

^ilderspin, and
while I went
e me. 1 knew
Id have to be
is to say, low-
was painful to
Tct her buried
e squalid court
; woman lived.
Dpen. Wilder-
by Mrs. Gud-
lie model upon
lying in the
fallen when

Iwas Mrs. Gud-
Icould not have

ling at the girl,
[its freshness of
Ire, and that she
lore acute kind
]:ood looking at
model recover

from the seizure this would be an excellent and quite un-
expected opportunity for me to get her away. Tlie woman,
I thought, would after a wiiile wake up, and find to her
amazement the body gone of her wliom she thought dead.
If she had really kidnapped the girl she would be afraid to
set any inquiry afoot. She might even perhaps imagine
that the girl s relations had traced her, found the dead body,
and removed it for burial while she, the kidnapper, was
asleep.

After a while the expression of terror on the model's face
began to relax, and she soon awoke into that strange con-
dition which had caused Wilderspin to declare that she had
been sent from another world. She recognised me in the
semi-conscious way in which she recognised all those who
were brought into contact with her, and looked into my
face with that indescribably sweet smile of hers. From the
first she had in her dazed way seemed attached to me, and
I had now no difficulty whatever in persuading her to ac-
company me downstairs and out of the house.

Before going, however, the whim seized me to write on
the wall in large letters, with a piece of red drawing-chalk
I had in my waistcoat pocket, ''Kidnapper, beware! Jack
Ketch is on your track." I took the girl to my house, and
put her under the care of my housekeeper (much to the
worthy lady's surprise), who gave her every attention. I
then went to Wilderspin's studio.

"Well," said he, "there is no body lying there, I sup-
pose?"

"None," I said.

"Did I not tell you that the spirit world had called her
back? What I saw has vanished, as I expected. How
could you suppose that a material body could ever be so
beautiful ?"

As I particularly wished that the model should, for a
time at least, be removed from all her present surround-
ings, I thought it well to let Wilderspin retain his wild
theory as to her disappearance.

I had already arranged to go on the following day to
Hurstcote Manor, where several unfinished pictures were
waiting for me, and I decided to take the model with me.

Before, however, I started for the country with her, I
had the curiosity to call next morning upon the woman
in Primrose Court, in order to discover what had been the

'I 'la

l;;: I'

m f

434 Aylwin

effect of my stratagem. I found her sitting in a state of
excitement, and evidently in great alarm, gazing at the
mattress. The words I had written on the wall had been
carefully washed out.

"Well, Mrs. Gudgeon," I said, "what has become of
your daughter?"

"Dead," she whimpered, "dead."

"Ye«. I know she's dead," I said. "But where is the
body?"

"Where's the body? Why, buried, in course," said the
woman.

"Buried? Who buried her?" I said.

"What a question, sure/iV !" she said, and kept repeating
the words in order, as I saw, to give herself time to invent
some story. Then a look of cunning overspread her face,
and she whimpered, "Who docs bury folks in Primrose
Court? The parish, to be sure."

These words of the woman's showed that matters had
taken exactly the course I should have liked them to take.
She would tell other inquirers as she had told me, that her
daughter had been buried by the parish. No one would
take the trouble, I thought, to inquire into it, and the mat-
ter would end at once.

So I said to her, "Oh, if the parish buried her, that's all
right; no one ever makes inquiries about people who
are buried by the parish."

This seemed to relieve the woman's mind vastly, and she
said, "In course they don't. What's the use of askin'
questions about people as are buried by the parish ?"

Not thinking that the time was quite ripe for cross-
examining Mrs. Gudgeon as to her real relations to the
model, I left her, and that same afternoon I took the model
down to Hurstcote Manor, determining to keep the matter
a secret from everybody, as I intended to discover, if possi-
ble, her identity.

I need scarcely remind you that although you told me
some little of the story of yourself and a young lady to
whom you were deeply attached, you were very reticent as
to the cause of her dementia; and your story ended with
her disappearance in Wales, I, for my part, had not the
smallest doubt that she had fallen down a precipice and was
dead. Everything — especially the fact tluit >ou List saw
her on the brink of a precipice, running into a volume of

in a state of
azing at the
all had been

s become of

where is the
se," said the

ipt repeating
me to invent
ead her face,
in Primrose

matters had
hem to take.

me, that her
o one would
and the mat-

ler, that's all
people who

stly, and she
se of askin'
rish ?"

for cross-
tions to the
)k the model
D the matter
ver, if possi-

>^ou told me
ung lady to
y reticent as
ended with
had not the
)ice and was
oil last saw
a volume of

D'Arcy's Letter 435

mist — pointed to but one conclusion. To have imagined
for a moment that she and Wilderspin's model, who had
been discovered in the streets of London, were the same,
would have been, of course, impossible. Besides, you had
given me no description of her personal appearance, nor
had you said a word to me as to her style of beauty,, which
is undoubtedly unique.

When I got the model fairly settled at Hurstcote her
presence became a delight to me. such as it could hardly
have been to any other man. It is difficult for me to
describe that delight, but I will try.

Do you by chance remember our talk about animals ana
the charm they had for me, especially young animals ? And
do you remember my saying that the most fascinating
creature in the world would be a beautiful young girl as
unconscious as a child or a young animal, if such a com-
bination of charms were possible? Such a young girl as
this it was whom I was now seeing every day and all day.
The charm she exercised over me was no doubt partly
owing to my own peculiar temperament — to my own hatred
of self-consciousness and to an innate shyness which is
apt to make me feel at times that people are watching me,
when they most likely are doing nothing of the kind.

And charming as she is now, restored to health and
consciousness — charming above most young ladies with
her sweet intelligence and most lovable nature — the inex-
pressible witchery I have tried to describe has vanished,
otherwise I don't know how I should have borne what I
now have brought myself to bear, parting from her.

I seemed to have no time to think about prosecuting
inquiries in regard to her identity. I am afraid there was
much selfishness in this, but I have never pretended to be
an unselfish man.

The one drop of bitterness in my cup of pleasure was the
recurrence of the terrible paroxysms to which she was
subject.

I was alarmed to find that these became more and more
frequent and more and more severe. I felt at last that
her system could not stand the strain much longer, and
that the end of her life was not far distant.

It was in a very singular way that I came to know her
name and also her relations with you. In my original
perplexity about finding a model for my Zenelophon, [ ha*!

43^

Aylwin

■^ :.,..,

ili

-m:

bethought me of Sinfi Lovell, who, with a friend of hers
named Rhona Boswell, sat to Wilderspin, to your cousin,
and others. I had made inquiries about Sinfi, but had been
told that she was not now to be had, as she had abandoned
London altogether, and was settled in Wales.

One day, however, I was startled by seeing Sinfi walking
across the meadows along the footpath leading from the
station.

She told me that she had quitted Wales for good, and
bad left you there, and that on reaching London and call-
ing at one of the studios where she used to sit, she had
been made a /are of my inquiries after her. As she had
now detern ' iied to sit a good deal for painters, she had
gone to my ijtudio in London. Being told there that I was
at Hurstcote Manor, where she had sat to me on several
occasions, she had taken the train and come down.

During our conversation the model passed through the
garden gate and walked towards the Spinney, and stood
looking in a rapt way at the sunset clouds and listening
to the birds.

When Sinfi caught sight of her she stood as if petrified,
and exclaimed, "Winnie W^ynne! Then she ain't dead;
the dukkeripen was true ; they'll be married arter all. Don't
let her see me suddenly, it might bring on fits."

Miss Wynne, however, had observed neither Sinfi nor
me, and we two passed into the garden without any
difficulty.

In the studio Sinfi sat down and in a state of the deepest
agitation, she told me much of the story, as far as she
knew it, of yourself and Miss Wynne, but I could see that
she was not telling trie all.

We were both perplexed as to what would be the best
course of action to take in regard to Miss Wynne — whether
to let her see Sinfi or not, for evidently she was getting
worse, the paroxysms were getting more frequent and
more severe. They would come without any apparent dis-
turbing cause whatever. Now that I had to connect her
you had lost in Wales with the model, many things re-
turned to me which I had previously forgotten, things
which you had told me in London. I had quite lately
learnt a good deal from Dr. Mivart, who formerly practised
near the town in which you lived, but who now lives in
London. He had been attending me for insomnia. While

D'Arcy's Letter

437

2nd of hers

our cousin,

ut had been

abandoned

infi walking
g from the

■ good, and
Dn and call-
sit, she had
As she had
rs, she had
e that I was
: on several
wn.

through the
, and stood
id listening

if petrified,
ain't dead;
rail. Don't

Sinfi nor
rithout any

he deepest

far as she

tld see that

be the best
e — whether
vas getting
quent and
>parent dis-
onnect her
things re-
en, things
uite lately
y practised
)w lives in
tnia. While

speculating as to what would be best to do, it occurred to
me that I would write to Mivart, asking him to run down
to me at Hurstcote Manor and consult with me, because
he had told me that he had given attention to cases of
hysteria. I did this, and persuaded Sinfi to remain and to
keep out of Miss Wynne's sight. Althought Sinfi was still
as splendid a woman as ever, I noticed a change in her.
Her animal spirits had fled, and she had to me the appear-
ance of a woman in trouble; but what her trouble was I
could not guess, and I cannot now guess. Perhaps she
had been jilted by some Gypsy swain.

When Dr. Mivart came he was much startled at recog-
nising in Miss Wynne his former patient of Raxton, whom
he had attended on her first seizure. He said that it would
now be of no use for me to write to you, as it was matter
of common knowledge that you had gone to Japan. If
it had not been for this I should have written to you at
once. He took a very grave view of Miss Wynne's case,
and said that her nervous system must shortly succumb to
the terrible seizures. Sinfi Lovell was in the room at the
time. I asked Dr. Mivart if there was any possible means
of saving her life.

"None," he said, "or rather there is one which is un-
available."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"They have a way at the Salpetriere Hospital of curing
cases of acute hysteria by transmitting the seizure to a
health"' patient b> means of a powerful magnet. My friend
Marini, of iliat hospital, has had recently some extraor-
dinary successt of this kind. Indeed, by a strange coin-
cicKnce, as I was travelling here this morning I chanced
to brv a Daily Telegraph in which this paragraph struck
mye} ."

Mivi t then pointed out to me a letter from Paris in the
Daily 1 elegraph, giving an account of certain proceedings
at the Salpetriere Hospital, and in the same paper there
was a long leading article upon the subject. The report
of the experiments was to me so amazing that at first I
could not bring my mind to believe in it. As you will, I am
sure, feel some incredulity, I have cut out the paragraph,
and here it is pasted at the bottom of this page : —

"The chief French surgeons and medical professors have, for
srme time, been carefully studying the eflfect of mesmerism on the

■IHillinMIIBI

■ 1

1' ■'

i'\ l:i

438

Aylwin

female patients of the Salpetriere Hospital, and M. Marini, a clini-
cal surgeon of that establishment, has just effected a series of ex-
periments, the results of which would seem to open up a new field
for medical science. M. Marini tried to prove that certain hysteri-
cal symptoms could be transferred by the aid of the magnet from
one patient to another. He took two subjects: one a dumb woman
afflicted with hysteria, and the other a female who was in a state
of hypnotic trance. A screen was placed between the two, and the
hysterical woman was then put under the influence of a strong
magnet. After a few moments she was rendered dumb, while speech
was suddenly restored to the other. Luckily for his healthier patients,
however, their borrowed pains and symptoms did not last long."

And Mivart was able to give me some more extraordi-
nary instances of the transmission of hysterical seizures
from one patient to another, instances where permanent
cures were effected.* Naturally I asked Mivart what be-
fell the new victims of the seizures.

"That depends," said Mivart, "upon three circumstances
— the acuteness of the seizure, the strength of the recip-
ient's nervous system, and the kind of imagination she has.
In all Marini's experiments the new patient has quickly re-
covered, and the original patient has remained entirely
cured ani^ often enti/ely unconscious that she has ever
suffered from the paroxysms at all."

Mivart went on to say that the case of Miss Wynne was
so severe a one that if the new patient's imagination were
very strong the risk to her would be exceptionally great.

At the end of this discussion Mivart directed my atten-
tion to Sinfi Lovell. She sat as though listening to some
voice. Her head was bent forward, her lips were parted,
and her eyes were closed. Then I heard her say in a loud
.whisper, "Yis, mammy dear, little Sinfi's a-listenin'. Yis,
this is the way to make her dukkeripen come true, and then
mine can't. Yis, this is the very way. They shall meet
again by Knockers' Llyn, where I seed the Golden Hand,
and arter that, never shall little Sinfi go ag'in you, dear.
And never no more shall any one on 'em, Gorgio or
Gorgie, bring their gries and their beautiful livin'-waggins
among tents o' ourn. Never no more shall they jine our
breed — never no more, never no more. And then my
dukkeripen can't come true."

Then, springing up, she said, "I'll stand the risk anyhow.
You may pass the cuss on to me if you can."

*The transmiss'ons here alluded to were mostly effected by M.
Babinski, of the Salpetriere. They excited gre.7t attention in Paris.

rini, a clini-
ieries of ex-
» a new field
tain hysteri-
nagnet from
umb woman
as in a state
two, and the
of a strong
while speech
hier patients,
last long."

extraordi-

:al seizures

permanent

•t what be-

cnmstances
t the recip-
on she has.
quickly re-
ed entirely
e has ever

Wynne was
ation were
ally great,
my atten-
g to some
ere parted,
in a loud
nin'. Yis,
;, and then
shall meet
llden Hand,
you, dear.
Gorgio or
-waggins
y jine our
then my

|sk anyhow.

fected by M.
tion in Paris..

D'Arcy's Letter 439

"The seizure has nothing to do with any curse," said
Mivart, "but if you think it has, you are the last person
to whom it should be transmitted."

"Oh, never fear," said Sinfi; "Gorgio cuss can't touch
Romany. But if you find you can pass the cuss on to me,
ril stand the cuss all the same."

I always admired this noble girl very much, and I pointed
out to her the danger of the experiment to one of her
temperament, but assured her the superstition about the
Gorgio curse was entirely an idle one.

"Danger or no danger," she said, "I'll chance it; I'll
chance it."

"It might be the death of you," I said, "if you believe
that the seizure is a curse."

"Death !" she murmured, with a smile. "It ain't death
as is likely to scare a Romany chi, especially if she hap-
pens to want to die." And then she said aloud, "I tell you
I mean to chance it. but I think my dear old daddy ought
to know about it. So if you'll jist write to him at Gypsy
Dell by Rington, and ask him to come and see me here,
I'm right well sure he'll come and see me at wonst. He
can't read the letter hisself, of course, but the Scollard
can, and so can Rhona Boswell. One on 'em will read it to
him, and I know he'll come at wonst. I shouldn't like to
run such a risk without my dear blessed old daddy knowin'
on it."

It ended in Mivart's writing to Sinfi's father, and Panuel
Lovell turned up the next evening in a great state of alarm
as to what he was wanted for. Panuel's opposition to the
scheme was so strong that I refused to urge the point.

It was a very touching scene between him and Sinfi.

"You know what your mammy told you about you and
the Gorgios," said he, with tears trickling down his cheeks.
"You know the dukkeripen said as you wur to beware o'
Gorgios, because a Gorgio would come to the Kaulo
Camloes as would break your heart."

She looked at her father for a second, and then she broke
into a passion of tears, and threw herself upon the old
man's neck, and I thought I heard her murmur, "It's broke
a'ready, daddy." But I really am not quite sure that she
did not say the opposite of this.

I had no idea before how strong the family ties are be-
tween the Gypsies. It seems to me tiiat they are stronger

440

Aylwin

fii

^ -i

than with us, and I was really astonished that Sinfi could,
in order to be of service to two people of another race,
resist the old Gypsy's appeal. She did, however, and it
was decided that at the next seizure the experiment should
be made, and Dr. Mivart telegraphed to London for his
assistant to bring one of Marin, s magnets.

We had not long to wait, for the very next day, just as
Mivart was preparing to leave for London, Miss Wynne
was seized by another paroxysm. It was more severe than
any previous one — so severe, indeed, that it seemed to me
that it must be the last.

It was with great reluctance that Mivart consented to
use Sinfi as the recipient of the seizure, because of her
belief that it was the result of a curse. However, he at
last consented, and ordered two couches to be placed side
by side with a large magnet between them. Then Miss
Wynne was laid on one couch, and Sinfi Lovell on the
other; a screen was placed between the couches, and then
the wonderful effect of the magnetism began to show itself.

The transmission was entirely successful, and Miss
Wynne awoke as from a trance, and I saw as it were the
beautiful eyes change as the soul returned to them. She
was no longer the fascinating child who had become part
of my life. She was another person, a stranger whose
acquaintance I had now to make, and whose friendship I
had yet to win. Indeed the change in the expression was
so great that it was really difficult to believe that the
features were the same. This was owing to the wonder-
ful change in the eyes.

To Sinfi Lovell the seizure was transmitted in a way
that was positively uncanny — she passed into a paroxysm
so severe that Mivart was seriously alarmed for her. Her
face assumed the same expression of terror which I had
seen on Miss Wynne's face, and she uttered the cry, "Fa-
ther!" and then fell back into a state of rigidity.

"The transmission was just in time," said Mivart; "the
other patient would never have survived this."

Strong as Sinfi Lovell was, the effect of the transmission
upon her nervous system was to me appalling. Indeed it
was much greater, Mivart said, than he was prepared for.
Poor Panuel Lovell kept gazing at us, and then said, "It's
cruel to let one woman kill herself for another ; but when
her as kills herself is a Romany, and t'other a Gorgie,

D'Arcy's Letter

441

Mnfi could,
other race,
ver, and it
lent should
ion for his

lay, just as
iss Wynne
severe than
med to me

»nsented to
use of her
ever, he at
placed side
Then Miss
/ell on the
s, and then
show itself,
and Miss
it were the
them. She
ecome part
g'er whose
riendship I
ession was
that the
le wonder-
in a way
paroxysm
her. Her
licli I had
cry, "Fa-

vart; "the

msmission
Indeed it
pared for.
said, "It's
but when
la Gorgie,

it's what I calls a blazin' shame. She would do it, my poor
chavi would do it. 'No harm can't come on it,' says she,
'because a Gorgio cuss can't touch a Romany.' An' now
see what's come on it."

Mivart would not hear of Sinfi's returning at present to
the Gypsies, as she required special trcr'ment. Hence
there was no course left open to us but that of keeping
her here attended by a nurse whom Mivart sent. While
the recurrent paroxysms were severe, Sinfi was to be care-
fully kept apart from Miss Wynne until it should become
quite clear how much and how little Miss Wynne remem-
bered of her past life. Mivart, however, leaned to the
opinion that nothing could recall ^^o her mind the catas-
trophe that caused the seizure. By an unforeseen accident
they met, and I was at first fearful of the consequences,
but soon found that Mivart's theory was right. No ill
effects whatever followed the meeting. Sinfi's transmitted
paroxysms have gradually become less acute and less fre-
quent, and Miss Wynne has been constantly with her and
ministering to her; the affection between them seems to
have been of long standing, and very great.

I found that Miss Wynne remembered all her past life
down to her first seizure on Raxton Sands, while every-
thing that had since passed was a blank. Since her recov-
ery her presence here has seemed to shed a richer sunlight
over the old place, but of course she is no longer the fairy
child who before her cure fascinated me more than any
other living creature could have done.

Apart from her sweet companionship, she has been of
great service to me in my art. When I learnt who she was,
I should not have dreamed of asking her to sit to me as a
model without having first taken your views, and you were,
as I understood, abroad ; but she herself generously volun-
teered to sit to me for a picture I had in my mind, "The
Spirit of Snowdon." It was a failure, however, and I
abandoned it. Afterwards, knowing that I was at my wits'
end for a model in the painting I have been for a long time
at work upon, "Zenelophon," she again offered to sit to
me. The result has been that the picture, now near com-
pletion, is by far the best thing I have ever done.

I had noticed for some time that Sinfi's mind seemed to
be running upon some project. Neither Miss Wynne nor
I could guess what it was. But a few days ago she pro-

442 Aylwin

posed that Miss Wynne and she should take a trip to North
Wales in order to revisit the places endeared to them both
by reminiscences of their childhood. Nothing seemed
more natural than this. And Sinfi's noble self-sacrifice
for Miss Wynne had entitled her to every consideration,
and indeed every indulgence.

And yesterday they started for Wales. It was not till
after they were gone that I learnt from another newspaper
paragraph that you did not go to Japan, and are in Wales.
And now I begin to suspect that Sinfi's determination to
go to Wales with Miss Wynne arose from her having
suddenly learnt that you are still there.

And now, my dear Aylwin, having acted as a somewhat
prosaic reporter of these wonderful events, I should like to
conclude my letter with a word or two about what took
place when I parted from you in the streets of London.
I saw then that your sufferings had been very great, and
since that time they must have been tenfold greater. And
now I rejoice to think that, of all the men in this world who
have ever loved, you, through this very suffering, have
been the most fortunate. As Job's faith was tried by
Heaven, so has your love been tried by the power \vhich
you call "circumstance" and which Wilderspin calls "the
spiritual world." All that death has to teach the mind
and the heart of man you have learnt to the very full,
and yet she you love is restored to you, and will soon
be in your arms. I, alas ! have long known that the tragedy
of tragedies is the death of a beloved mistress, or a be-
loved wife. I have long known that it is as the King
of Terrors that Death must needs come to any man who
knows what the word "love" really means. I have never
been a reader of philosophy, but I understand that the
philosophers of all countries have been preaching for ages
vipon ages about resignation to Death — about the final
beneficence of Death — that "reasonable moderator and
equipoise of justice," as Sir Thomas Browne calls him.
Equipoise of justice indeed ! He who can read with toler-
ance such words as these must have known nothing of
the true passion of love for a woman as you and I un-
derstand it. The Elizabethans are full of this nonsense;
but where does Shakspeare, with all his immense philo-
sophical power ever show this temper of acquiescence?
All his impeachments of Death have the deep ring of per-

i^l;

D'Arcy*s Letter

ip to North
them both
iig seemed
elf-sacrifice
iisideration,

,vas not till
newspaper
e in Wales,
iiination to
her having

1 somewhat
ould like to
what took
of London.
' great, and
eater. And
> world who
ering, have
as tried by
ower \vhich
calls "the
the mind
very full,
will soon
he tragedy
s, or a be-
the King
^ man who
have never
id that the
ig for ages
[t the final
erator and
calls him.
with toler-
nothing of
and I un-
nonsense ;
mse philo-
luiescence?
[ing of per-

. 443

sonal feeling — dramatist though he was. But what I am
going to ask you is, How shall the modern materalist who
you think is to dominate the Twentieth Century and all the
centuries to follow — how shall he confront Death when a
beloved mistress is struck down ? When Moschus lamented
that the mallow, the anise, and the parsley had a fresh birth
every year, whilst we men sleep in the hollow earth a long,
unbounded, never-waking sleep, he told us what your mod-
ern materialist tells us, and he re-echoed the lamentation
which, long before Greece had a literature at all, had been
heard beneath Chaldean stars and along the mud-banks of
the Nile. Your bitter experience made you ask material-
ism. What comfort is there in being told that death is the
very nursery of new life, and that our heirs are oar very
selves, if when you take leave of her who was and is your
world it is "Vale, vale, in aeternum vale"? The dogged
resolution with which at first 3'ou fought and strove for
materialism struck me greatly. It made you almost rude
to me at our last meeting.

When I parted from you I should have been blind in-
deed had I failed to notice how scornfully you repudiated
my suggestion that you should replace the amulet in the
tomb from which it had been stolen. I did not then know
that the tomb was your father's. Had I known it my
suggestion would have been much more emphatic. I saw
that you had the greatest difficulty in refraining from
laughing in my face when I said to you that you would
eventually replace it. Yes, you had great difficulty in re-
fraining from laughing. I did not take offence. I felt sure
that the cross was in some way connected with the young
lady you had lost in Wales, but I could not guess how.
Had you told me that the cross had been taken from your
father's tomb I should no doubt have connected it with the
cry of "Father" which had, I knew, several times been
uttered in Wilderspin's studio, by the model in her par-
oxysms, and I should have earlier done what I was destined
to do — I should earlier have brought you together. From
sympathy that sprang from a deep experience I knew you
better than you knew yourself. When I learnt from Sinfi
Lovell that you had fulfilled my prophecy I did not laugh.
Tears rather than laughter would have been more in my
mood, for I realised the martyrdom you must have suffered
before you were impelled to do it. I knew how you must

A I

1 \

444 Aylwin

have been driven by sorrow — driven against all the mental
methods and traditions of your life — into the arms of super-
naturalism. But you were simply d-'ng what Hamlet
would have done in such circumstances — what Macbeth
would have done, and what he would have done who spoke
to the human heart through their voices. All men, I
believe, have Macbeth's instinct for making "assurance
doubly sure," and I cannot imagine the man who, en-
tangled as you were in a net of conflicting evidence — the
evidence of the spiritual and the evidence of the natural
world — would not, if the question were that of averting a
curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done as you
did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when
the evidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him,
no one can possibly understand better than I. For it was
exactly similar to my own condition on that never-to-be-
forgotten night \hen she whom I lost

While the marvellous sight fell, or appeared to fall, upon
my eyes, my blood, like Ham! 's, became so masterful that
my reason seemed nothing but a, blind and timorous guide.
No sooner had the sweet vision fl.'d than my reason, like
Hamlet's, rose and rejected it. It was not until I became
acquainted with the rationale of sympathetic manifestations
— it was not till I learnt, by means of that extraordinary
book of your father's, which seems to have done its part
in turning friend Wilderspin's head, what is the supposed
method by which the spiritual world acts upon the material
world — acts by the aid of those same natural bonds which
keep the stars in their paths — that my blood and my reason
became reconciled, and a new light came to me. And
I knew that this would be your case. Yes, my dear Aylwin,
I knew that when the issues of Life are greatly beyond the
common, and when our hearts are torn as yours has been
torn, and when our souls are on fire with a flame such
as that which I saw was consuming you, the awful possi-
bilities of this universe — of which we, civilized men or
savages, know nothing — will come before us, and tease our
hearts with strange wild hopes, "though all the 'proofs' of
all the logicians should hold them up to scorn."

I am, my dear Aylwin,

Your sincere Friend,

T. D'Arcy

tlie mental
ns of super-
lat Hamlet
at Macbeth
: who spoke
A.11 men, I

"assurance
1 who, en-
idence — the
the natural

averting a
lone as you
owed when
before him,

For it was
lever-to-be-

Q fall, upon
sterful that
rous guide,
•eason, like
1 I became
nifestations
traordinary
me its part
e supposed
he material
Dnds which
my reason
me. And
?ar Aylwin,
beyond the
s has been
flame such
wful possi-
;d men or
d tease our
'proofs' of

XVII.

The Two Dukkeripens

nd,
D'Arcy

[tl •>.'

;iP

Hit

XVII. — THE TWO
DUKKERIPENS

Was the mystery at an end? Was there one point in this
story of stories which this letter of D'Arcy's had not cleared
up ? Yes, indeed there was one. What motive — or rather,
what mixture of motives — had impelled Sinfi to play her
part in restoring Winifred to me? Her afifection for me
was, I knew, as strong as my own afifection for her. But
this I attributed largely to the mysterious movements of
the blood of Fenella Stanley which we both shared. In
many matters there was a kinship of taste between us, such
as did not exist between me and Winnie, who was far from
being scornful of conventions, and to whom the little
Draconian laws of British Society" were not objects of
mere amusement, as they were to me and Sinfi.

All this I attributed to that "prepotency of transmission
in descent" which I knew to be one of the Romany char-
acteristics. All this I attributed, I say, to the far-reaching
influence of Fenella Stanley.

But would this, coupled with her affection for Winifred,
have been strong enough to conquer Sinfi's terror of a
curse and its supposed power? And then that colloquy
recorded by D'Arcy with what she believed to be her
mother's spirit — those words about "the two dukkeripens"
— what did they mean ? At one moment I seemed to guess
their meaning in a dim way, and at the next they seemed
more inexplicable than ever. But be their import what it
might, one thing was quite certain — Sinfi had saved
Winifred, and there swept through my very being a passion
of gratitude to the girl who had acted so nobly which for
the moment seemed to drown all other emotions.

^ had not much time, however, for bringing my thoughts

it i

If'.

if'?';^*

'.i*!!

.l«ii

V'
11

448

Aylvvin

to bear upon this new source of wonderment; for I sud-
denly saw Winifred and Sinfi descending the steep path
towards me.

But what a change there was in Sinfi! The traces of
illness had fled ( ntirely from her face, and were replaced
by the illumination of the triumphant soul within — a light
such as I could imagine shining on the features of Boadicea
fresh from a successful bout with the foe of her race. Even
the loveliness of Winnie seemed for the moment to pale
before the superb beauty of the Gypsy girl, whom the sun
was caressing as though it loved her, shedding a radiance
over her picturesque costume, and making the gold coins
round her neck shine hke dewy whin-flowers struck by the
sunrise.

I understood well that expression of triumph. I knew
that, with her, imagination was life itself. I knew that this
imagination of hers had just escaped from the sting of the
dom.inant thought which was threatening to turn a sup-
posed curse into a curse indeed.

I. went to meet them,

"I promised to bring her livin' mullo," said Sinfi, "and
I have kept my word, and now we are ail going up to the
top together."

Winnie at once proceeded to pack up the breakfast
things in Sinfi's basket. While she was doing this Sinfi
and I went to the side of the llyn.

"Sinfi, I know all — all you have done for Winnie, all
you have done for me."

"You know about me takin' the cuss?" she said in as-
tonishment. "Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany, they say,
but it did touch me. I wur very bad, brother. How-
somedever, it's all gone now. But how did you come to
know about it? Winnie don't know herself, so she couldn't
ha' told you ; and I promised Mr. D'Arcy that if ever I wur
to see you anywheres I wouldn't talk about it — lease ways
not till he could tell you hisself or write to you full."

"Winnie does not know about it," I said, "but I do. I
know that in order to save her life — in order to save us
both — you allowed her illness to pass on to you, at your
own peril. But you mustn't talk of its being a curse, Sinfi.
It was just an illness like any othe. illness, and the doctor
passed it on to you in the same way that doctors sometimes
do pass on such illnesses. Doctors can't cure curses, you

; for I sud-
steep path

lie traces oi
ere replaced
hill— a liglit
of Boadicea
• race. Even
ncnt to pale
liom the sun
g a radiance
^e gold coins
itruck by the

iph. I knew

new that this

I sting of the

turn a sup-

id Sinfi, "and
ing up to the

the breakfast
ing this Sintl

Winnie, all

le said in as-
Lny, they say,
)ther. How-
,-ou come to
she couldn't
if ever I wur
lit — leaseways
lu full."
'but I do. I
tv to save us
you, at your
|a curse, Sinfi.
id the doctor
(rs sometimes
[e curses, you

The Two Dukkeripens

449

know. You will soon be quite well again, and then you
will forget all about what you call the curse."

"I'm well enough now, brother; but see, Winnie has
packed the things, and she's waiting to go up."

We then began the ascent.

Ah, that ascent ! I wish I had time and space to describe
it. Up the same path we went which Sinfi and I had fol-
lowed on that memorable morning when my heart was as
sad as it was buoyant now.

Reaching the top, we sat down in the hut and made our
simple luncheon. Winnie was a great favourite with tlie
people there, and she could not get away from them for a
long time. We w^ent dov/'i to Bwich Glas, and there we
stood gazing at the path that leads to Llanberis.

I had not observed, but Winnie evidently had, that Sinfi
wanted to speak to me alone ; for she wandered away pre-
tending to be looking for a certain landmark which she
remembered ; and Sinfi and I were left together.

"Brother," said Sinfi, "I ain't a-goin' to IJanberis and
Carnarvon with you two. You take that path; I take
this."

She pointed to the two downward paths.

"Surely you are not going to leave us at a moment like
this?" I said. .

"That's jist what 1 am a-goin' to do," she said. "This is
the very time an' this is the very place where 1 am a-goin'
to leave you an' all Gorgios."

"Part on Snowdon, Sinfi !" I exclaimed.

"That's wliat we're a-goin' to do, brother. What I sez
to myself wlien I made up my mind to take the cuss on me
wur this: 'I'll make her dukkeripen come true; I'll take
her to him in Wales, and then we'll part. We'll part
on Snowdon, an' I'll go one way an' they'll go another,
jist like them two streams as start from Gorphwysfa an'
go runnin' down till one on 'em takes the sea at Carnarvon,
and t'other at Treniadoc' Yis, brother, it's on Snowdon
where you an' Winnie Wynne sees the last o' vSiiifi Lovell."

Distressed as I was at her words, that indexible look on
her face I understood onls' too well.

"But there is Mr. JJ'Arey to consider," I said. "Winnie
tells me that it is the particular wish of Mr. D'Arcy that
you and she should return to him at Hurstcote Manor.

450 Aylwin

He has been wonderfully kind, and his wishes should be
complied with."

"No, brother," said Sinfi, "I shall never go to Hurstcote
Manor no more."

"Surely you will, Sinfi. Winnie tells me of the deep
regard ihat Mr. D'Arcy has for you."

"Never no more. Winifred's dukkeripen on Snowdon
has come true, and it wur me what made it come true.
Yes, it wur Sinfi Lovell and nobody else what made that
dukkeripen came true."

And again her face was illuminated by the triumphant
expression which it wore when she returned to Knockers'
Llyn with Winnie.

"It was indeed your noble self-sacrifice for Winnie and
me that made the dukkeripen of the Golden Hand come
true."

"It worii't all for you and Winn^ie, Hal. I ain't a-goin'
to let you think better 0:1 me than I desarve. It wur partly
for you, and it wur partly for my dear mammy, and it wur
partly for mvself. Listen to me, Hal Aylwin. l^Vhcn I made
Winnie's dukkeripen come true I made my ozvn dukkeripen come
to naught at the same time. The on^y way to make a dukker-
ipen come to naught is to make another dukkeripen what
conterdicks it come true. That's the only way to master
a dukkeripen. It ain't often that Romanies or Gorgios
or anything that lives can miFtor his own dukkeripen. I've
been thinkin' a good deal about sich things since I took that
cuss on me. night artji' night have I laid awake thinkin'
about these 'ere things, and, brother, I believe I have done
what no livin' creatur' ever done before — I've mastered my
own dukkeripen. M}'^ mr^.mmy used to say that the duk-
keripen of every livin' thing romes true at last. Ts there
anythink in the whole world,' she would say, 'more crafty
nor one o' those old broad-finned trouts in Knockers'
Llyn? But that trout's got his dukkeripen, an' it comes
true at last. All day long he's p'raps bin a-flashin' his fins
an' a-twiddlin' his tail round an' round the may-fly or tlie
brandlin' worrum, though he knows all about the hook;
but all at wonst comes the time o' the bitin', and that's
the time o' the dukkeripen, when every fish in the brook,
whether he's hungry or not, begins to bite, an' then up
comes old red-spots, an' grabs at the bait because he must
gral), an' swallows it because he nutst swallow it; an'

h"* '

i should be

3 Hurstcote

oi the deep

in Snowdon

come true.

t made that

triumphant
o Knockers'

Winnie and
Hand come

ain't a-goin'
It wur partly
y, and it wur
PVhcn I made
tkkenpcn come
d<e a dukker-
jkeripen what
ay to master
or Gorgios
eripen. I've
e I took that
vake thinkin'
I h?ve done
mastered my
mt the duk-
st. 'Is there
'more crafty
n Knockers'
an' it comes
shin' his fins
ay-fly or the
it the hook ;
i', and that's
n the brook,
an' then up
lause he must
llow it; an'

The Two Dukkeripens 45 1

there's a hend of old red-spots jist as sure as if he didn't
know there wur a hook in the bait.' That's what my
mammy used to say. But there wur one as could, and
did, master her own dukkeripen — Shuri Lovell's Little
Sinfi."

"You have mastered your dukkeripen, Sinfi ?"

"Yes, I've mastered mine," she said, with the same look
of triumph on her face — "I swore I'd master my dukkeri-
pen, brother, an' I done it. I said to myself the dukkeripen
is strong, but a Romany chi may be stronger still if she
keeps a-sayin' to herself *I will master it ; I will, I will.' "

"Then that explains something I have often noticed,
Sinfi. I have often seen your lips move and nothing has
come from them but a whisper, 'I will, I will, I will.' "

"Ah, you've noticed that, have you? Well then, now
you know what it meant."

"But, Sinfi, you have not told me what your dukkeripen
is. You have often alluded to it, but you have never al-
lowed me even to guess what it is."

Sinfi's face beamed with pride of triumph.

" You never guessed it? No, you never could guess it.
An' months an' months have we lived together an' you
heard me whisper 'I will, I will,' an' you never guessed
what them words meant. Lucky for you, my fine Gorgio,
that you didn't guess it," she said, in an altered tone.

"Why?"

" 'Cos if you had a-guessed it you'd ha' cotch'd a left-
hand body-blow that 'ud most like ha' killed you. That's
what you'd ha' cotch'd. But now as we're a-goin' to part
for ever I'll tell you."

"Part for ever, Sinfi?"

"Yis, an' that's why I'm goin' to tell you what my duk-
keripen wur. Many's the time as you've asked me how it
was that, for all that you and I was pals, I hate the Gorgios
in a general way as much as Rhona Boswell likes 'em.
I used to likt^ the Gorgios wonst as well as ever Rhona did
— else how should I ever ha' been so fond o' Winnie
Wynne? Tell me that," she said, in an argumentative way
as though I had challenged her speech, "If I hadn't ha'
liked the Gorgios wonst, how should I ha' been so fond
o' Winnie Wynne? An' why don't I like Gorgios now?
Many's the time you've ax'd me that question, an' now's
tlie time for me to tell you. I know'd the time 'ud come.

.« I

i ! i'

I' ?

W i

I .]r

t (

452 Aylwin

an' this is the time to tell you, when you an' me an'
Winnie ^re a-goin' to part for ever at the top o' the biggest
mountain m the world, this 'ere blessed Snowdon, as alius
did seem somehow to belong to her an' me. When I wur
fond o' the Gorgios — fonder nor ever Rhona Boswell wur at
that time ('cos she handn't never met then with the Gorgio
she's a-goin' to die for) — it wur when 1 wur a little chavi,
an' didn't know nothink about dnkkeripens at all ; but
arterwards my mammy told my dukkeripen out o' the
clouds, an' it wur jist this : I wur to beware o' Gorgios,
'cos a Gorgio would come among the Kaulo Camloes an'
break my heart. An' I says to her, 'Mammy dear, afore
my heart shall break for any Gorgio I'll cut it out with
this 'ere knife/ an' I draw'd her knife out o' her frock
an' put it in my own, and here it is." And Sinii pulled out
her knife and showed it to me. ''An' now, brother, I'm
goin' to tell you somethink else, an' what I'm goin' to
tell you'll show we're goin' to part for ever an' ever. As
sure as ever the Golden Hand opened over Winnie Wynne's
head an' yourn on Snowdon, so sure did I feel that you two
'ud be married, even when it seemed to you that she must
be dead. An' as sure as ever my n-rmniy said I nuist
beware o' Gorgios, so sure was It. you wus the very
Gorgio as wur to break the Komany chi's heart — if that
Romany chi's heart hadn't been Sinli Lovell's. You hadn't
been my pal long afore I know'd that. Arter I had been
with you a~lookin' for Winnie or fishin' in the brooks,
many's the time, when I lay in the tent with the star-
light a-shinin' through the chinks in the tent's mouth, that
I've said to myself, 'The very Gorgio as my mother seed
a-comin' to the Lovclls when she penned my dukkeripen,
he's asleep in his livin'-waggin not five yards erf.' That's
what made me seem so strange to you at tim.cs, thinkin'
o' my mammy's words, an' sayin' 'I will, I will.' And now,
brother, fare you \vell."

"But you must bid Winnie good-bye," I said, as I saw
her returning.

"Better not,'' said she. "You tell her I've changed my
mind abotit goin' to Carnarvon. She'll think we shall meet
again, but we slia'n't. Tell her that they expect you and
her at the inn at Llanberis. Rhona will be there to-night
with Winnie's cloe's and things."

"Sinfi," I said, "I cannot pirt from you *hi.L>. I ;-;:i:^^ld

' i'

i ! !i'

in' me an'
the biggest
on, as alius
Vhen I wur
5vvell wur at
the Gorgio
little chavi,
at all; but
out o' the
o' Gorgios,
I!amloes an'
dear, afore
it out with
)' her frock
ft pulled out
brother, I'm
'm goin' to
ti' ever. As
nie Wynne's
;hat you two
lat siie must
said I must
nis the very
^art — if that
You hadn't

I had been
the brooks,
th the star-
mouth, that

II other seed
(hikkcripen,

rf.' That's

cs. thinkin'

And now,

|d, as I saw

changed my

|e shall meet

2ct you and

?re to-nigh I

The Two Dukkeripens

453

>ii'..'i.

be miserable all my days. No man ever had such a noble,
self-sacrificing friend as you. I cannot give you up. In
a few days I shall go to the tents and see you and Rhona,
and my old friends, Panuel and Jericho; I shall indeed,
Sinfi. I mean to do it."

"No, no," cried Sinfi ; "everythink says 'No' to that ; the
clouds an' the stars says *No,' an' the win' says 'No,' anJ
the shine and the shadows says 'No,' and the Romany
Sap says 'No.' An' I shall send your livin'-waggin away,
Reia; yis, I shall send it arter you, Hal, and your two
beautiful grics ; an' I shall tell my daddy — as never conter-
dicks his chavi in nothink, 'cos she's took the seein' eye
from Shuri Lovell — I shall tell my dear daddy as no Gorgio
and no Gorgie, no lad an' no wench as ever wur bred o'
Gorgio blood an' bones, mustn't never live with our breed
no more. That's what I shall tell my dear dadd> ; an' why?
an' why? 'cos that's what my mammy comes an* tells me
every night, wakin' an' sleepin' — that's what she comes
an' tells me, Reia, in the waggin an' in the tent, an' aneath
the sun an' aneath the stars — an' that's what the fiery eyes
of the Romany Sap says out o' the ferns an' the grass, an'
in the Londra streets, whenever I thinks o' you. 'The kair
is kushto for the kairengro, but for the Romany the open
air.'* That's what my mammy used to say."

She then left me and descended the path to Capel Curig,
and was soon out of sight.

*The house is good for the house-dweller, the open air for the
Gypsy.

l! i

i: !

^ < ■

n*'

, t

V !

M ;

..,-

-^i-

'. i :'

■ i

- « : ■

, f ,

■ i ^j

;■ i

1 tli;:

; »

? 1 '

■

XVIII.

The Walk to Llanberis

til

fli

y i

I'^H^^

' ^hIVh

* ^^BflB

f 1

■mm

SI-

1 ■

1 it'.

i i 1:9

♦

Il4

' ; (

»■

!' ■'

XVIII.— THE WALK TO
LLANBERIS

When, on coming to rejoin us, Winnie learnt that Sinfi
had left for Capel Curig, she seemed at first omewhat dis-
concerted, I thought. Her training, begun under her
aunt, and finished under Miss Dalrymple, had been such
that she was by no means oblivious of Welsh proprieties ;
and, though I myself was entirely unable to see in what
way it was more eccentric to be mountaineering with a
lover than with a Gypsy companion, she proposed that we
should follow Sinfi.

"I have seen your famous living-waggon," she said. "It
goes )vherevQr the Lovells go. Let us follow her. You
can stay at Jietlws or Capel Curig, and I can stay with
Sinfi."

I told her how strong was Sinfi's wish that we should not
do so. Wiri7|/e soon yielded her point, and we began
leisurely our descey/t v^/c^fy^/afd, along that same path which
Sinfi and I had iaK^ri pri that other evening, which seemed
now so far away, wl/cri y/e walked down to Llanberis
with the setting sun in uiit (ates. If my misery could
then only find expression in sighs and occasional ejacula-
tions of pain, absolutely dumb was the bliss that came to
me now, growing ih power vvitlj pvery moment, as the
sceptin'sni of my mind about the reality of the new heaven
before me gave way to the triumphant acceptance of it by
my senses and my soul.

The beauty of the scene — the touch nt the summer
breeze, soft as velvet even when it grew boisterous, the
perfume of the Snowdonian flowerage that came up to
meet us, seemed to pour in upon me through the music
of Winnie's voice — which seemed to be fusing them all.
That beloved voice was making all my senses one.

"You leave all the talk to me," she said. But as she

4S8

Aylwin

h'.l

looked her instinct told her why I could not talk. She knew
that such happiness and such bliss as mine -arry the soul
into a region where spoken language is not.

Looking round me towards the left, where the mighty
hollow of Cwni Dyli was partly in sunshine and partly in
shade, I startled Winnie by suddenly calling out her name.
My thoughts had left the happy dream of Winifred's pres-
ence and were with Sinfi Lovell. As I looked at the tall
precipices rising from the chasm right up to the summit
of Snowdon, I recalled how Sinfi, notwithstanding her
familiarity with the scene, appeared to stand appalled as
she gazed at the jagged ridges of Crib-y-Ddysgyl, Crib
Goch, Lliwcdd. and the heights of Mocl Siabod beyond.
I recalled how the expression of alarm upon Sinfi's features
had made me almost see in the distance a starving girl
wandering among the rocks, and this it was that made me
now exclaim "Winnie 1" With this my lost power of speech
returned.

We went to the ruined huts where Sinii had on that
memorable day lingered by the spring, and Winnie began
to scoop out the water with her hand and drink it. She
saw how I wanted to drink the water out of the little palm,
and she scooped some out for me, saying, "It's the purest,
and sweetest, and best water on Snowdon."

"Yes," I said, "the purest, and sweetest, and best water
in the wurld when drunk from such a cup.''

She drew her hand away and let the water drop through
her fingers, and turned round to look at the scene we had
left, where the summit of Snowdon was towering beyond
a reach of rock, bathed in the rapidly deepening light.

"No idle compliments between you and me, sir," she
said with a smile. "Remember that I have still time and
strength to go back to the top and follow Sinfi down to
the camp."

And then we both laughed together, as we laughed that
afternoon in Wilderness Road when she enunciated her
theories upon the voices of men and the voices of birds.
She then stood gazing abstractedly into a pool of water,
upon which the evening lights were now falling. As I saw
her reflected in the surface of the stream, which was as
smooth as a mirror — saw her reflected there sometimes
on an almost colourless surface, sometimes amid a pro-

:i ■'«

The Walk to Llanberis

cession in wliich everv ml,.., , , ^^^

i^'UM. "\Vl,y,lo"f,,t ''"',"'? ■■•■""'>°>v tool. ,,;„•(
1 coMl,l not Ml I,,;. „Vv foi- r ' ''"■•

i|>on the paiiUcT who naintpfl v , "^ "ispiriiiif effeet
VVilder^pii, ,,ac, saic,, en.C n h' „;/' X" '"''^^<' -

"Oh 1 ? ^'°" "S^''''" ^''<= repeated ^ ^^'""'•

picWin a,:°;:!.lP;;;"' "-*- \Vinnic; if I eou,,, pain, ,„„

/not in the active aS of I ' ^"""^''""ff-an.:!,",^-

"ve you „„,st aluays have no v' '" "'" ""'•''I °f art. My

"nder any circnmstances "r'^->'?" '""st always have i^

shrhfnft^a^rf'"?'^^"^

">e picture. ^^^^ ^^-" °vcr the water, an,, looked at

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460

Aylwin

•'Ah, yes," said Winnie, "and how I should love to pahit
its beauty. The only people I really envy are painters."

We were now at the famous spot where the triple echo is
best heard, and we began to shout like two children in
tlie direction of Llyn DduV Arddu. And then our talk
naturally fell on Knockers' Llyn and the echoes to be heard
there. She then took me to another famous sight on this
side of Snowdon, the enormous stone, said to be five thou-
sand tons in weight, called the Knockers' anvil. While we
lingered here Winnie gave me as many anecdotes and
legends of this stone as would fill a little volume. But
suddenly slie stopped.

"Look !" she said, pointing to the sunset. "I have seen
that sight only once before. I was with Sinfi. She called it
'the Dukkeripen of the Trushul.' "

The sun was now on the point of sinking, and his
radiance, falling on the cloud-pageantry of the zenith,
fired the flakes and vapoury films floating and trailing
above, turning them at first into a ruby-coloured mass,
and then into an ocean of rosy fire. A horizontal bar
of cloud which, until the radiance of the sunset fell upon
it, had been dull and dark and grey, as though a long
slip from the slate quarries had been laid across the west,
became for a moment a deep lavender colour, and then
purple, and then red-gold. But what Winnie was point-
ing at was a dazzling shaft ot quivering fire where the
sun had now sunk behind the horizon. Shooting up from
the cliffs v/here the sun had disappeared, this shaft inter-
sected the bar of clouds and seemed to make an irregular
cross of deep rose.

When Winnie turned her eyes again to mine I was aston-
ished to see tears in them. I asked her what they meant.
She said, "While I was looking at that cross of rose and
gold in the clouds, it seemed to me that there came on the
evening breeze the sound of a sob, and that it was Sinfi's,
my sister Sinfi's ; but of course by this time Snowdon stands
between us and her.*'

l«ii;r

vmamm

[ love to paint

; painters."

triple echo is

o children in

then our talk

2S to be heard

sight on this

be five thoti-

il. While we

necdotes and

volume. But

"I have seen
She called it

ing, and his
f the zenith,

and trailing
loured mass,
orizontal bar
iset fell upon
ough a long
OSS the west,
ur, and then
e was point-
•e where the
ting up from
5 shaft inter-

an irregular

I was aston-

they meant.

of rose and

came on the

t was Sinfi's,

)wdon stands